


Finite Incantatem

by HollyShadow88



Series: Happiness Can Be Found [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Based on a Tumblr Post, Case Fic, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Drama, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, F/M, John-centric, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Minor Character Death, Muggle/Wizard Relations, NaNoWriMo, Past Relationship(s), Post-His Last Vow, Potterlock, Wizard John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-27 16:26:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 52,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2699549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollyShadow88/pseuds/HollyShadow88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Potterlock, written and completed during NaNoWriMo 2014.  When Minerva McGonagall makes a surprise visit to Baker Street, a part of John's past that he hoped he put behind him comes crashing back to the forefront. With a baby and an overly curious Sherlock Holmes in tow, John is forced back into the world he put behind him to bring a stop to the mysteriously familiar deaths haunting London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This year's NaNo was my third (successful) year in a row attempting the dreaded 50,000 words. I finally gave in to the inevitable and decided to do a legit fanfiction this year, and naturally I gravitated towards Potterlock. The original thought for this story came from the Tumblr post where McGonagall visits 221b to talk with John (found originally  
> [here](http://fancypantswatson.tumblr.com/post/76137687450/potterlock-au-john-was-wounded-as-an-auror-not)). The story itself is finished, so here's hoping that the process of getting it up won't take too fairly long. So. Here we go.

The sun had hardly decided to arrive when the sound began. Before, the townhouse sat completely still, the only signs of life coming from the gentle inhales and exhales of its occupants. It was only the murmurings of an infant, gradually increasing as its distress grew, that caused its parents to eventually rise into a half form of wakefulness.

“John?” muttered Mary, her bed-tussled hair becoming even more unruly as she ran a hand raggedly through it. “Is that – “

She was interrupted by a whimpering mewl from the baby monitor on her bedside. Groaning slightly, she made to rise before a hand slowly shot out to stop her. “No, wait,” John said as he sat up and blinked his eyes in an attempt to rouse his mind. “You got her three times last night, let me.”

“If she’s hungry – “

“Yes, right, I know,” John replied, pushing back the covers and stretching as he stood, a rough hand absentmindedly scrubbing at his shoulder. His feet led him through the familiar path to the nursery down the hall, his eyes glancing briefly at the purple initials painted across the door. He quirked a small smile before silently pushing inside, making his way swiftly over to the crib’s edge. A tiny, round face stared forlornly up at him, bright blue eyes faintly glittering with the beginnings of tears.

“Ah now, my wee lass, none of that,” John said to her as he reached down to take hold of her. He lifted her into his snug arms, tucking her head comfortably into the crook of his elbow. Swaying softly, John made his way over to the window, glancing out at the view. He leaned in towards her as he began to mumble quietly, gaze drifting between her and the garden outside.

The garden was small, hardly more than a few flowerbeds and a sprinkling of vegetable plants. Ever since the baby arrived, neither John nor Mary had had the time to properly care for it, but some of the plants had flourished on their own regardless. One bush in particular, a rose John had insisted upon adding and caring for himself, sat directly below the window. It had taken more work than John had originally cared to admit, but it was flourishing now, a few of the flower heads reaching high enough to be seen at the very edge of the windowsill.“That, my darling, is an osiria, a crossbreed,” John explained with a tiny grin, rocking her forward slightly so her curious face could take the plants in. “They’re the only kind of rose to have those two shades, red blending into white. They were my mum’s favourite, the only kind she’d grow when I was young.”

The baby cooed and sniffled up at him, tiny hands curling in and out of tight fists. Her face wrinkled up slowly, expression turning to one of distress. John clasped her tighter, expertly taking in the signs before reaching out a free hand to snatch up the rocking chair left not far away. He lowered himself down and set a gentle rhythm, watching as his daughter’s face immediately smoothed out, expression turning inquisitive as she stared up at him expectantly. Chuckling lightly, John sat back and let out a soft sign as his attention drifted back to the window.

“I remember finding them when I first went to school. Last place I expected to see osiria roses, certainly. Apparently they were one of the few sorts of plants to grow well out there. They didn’t have much purpose beyond looking well, but I appreciated the reminder of Mum regardless.”

John’s face crinkled in thought, memories chasing each other through his mind. The baby watched nearly silently, hands occasionally reaching out in an attempt to touch the wrinkles forming on the scruffy outline of his jaw. It wasn’t until an inquiring coo drew John’s attention downward that he returned to the present, the creases of his face smoothing out instantly as he smiled down at her. He brushed a hand gently across the slight dusting of light brown hair coating her head, his smile growing as she let out slight babbles of pleasure. John wasn’t sure how long he sat and simply watched her as she drifted back to sleep, one foot slowly pushing the rocking chair in a constant steady motion. The sun was just cresting over the horizon when she finally completely returned to sleep, her mouth left agape to reveal soft, toothless gums. With as much ease as possible given his stiff limbs, John rose to his feet and set her carefully back into her crib, easing her brief protest in slumber with encouraging noises at the back of his throat and a brush across her brow. A sudden burst of inspiration had his head shooting up to glance back out of the window.

With footsteps that purposefully avoided the well known creaks of the floor, John made his way out into the kitchen. He riffled through various drawers, eventually pulling out a spare pair of gardening scissors before slipping his bare feet into a set of loafers beside the back door. The day was already warmer than usual at that early hour, a slight haze giving everything a fuzzy glow. He set off for the osiria rose bush with intention in his stride, his blue gaze darting over the thick vines to find the ideal blooms. Most of the buds coating the bush had already flowered, but closer to the bottom where the plants had to fight for their share of sunlight were a few unopened blooms. John’s knees gave out a slight creak of protest as he knelt down, one hand reaching out to caress the outside of a bud on the cusp of opening. The silky edges of the petals melted gracefully from a silvery grey shade of white into a radiant ruby, the pairing of colors somehow managing to flow with seamless ease from one to the other. He chose a trio of buds just ready to open as well as a few that had already bloomed, careful to snip away any thorns. Once satisfied with his collection, he cleared away his trimmings and made his way back indoors.

They didn’t have any traditional vases, so John chose a tall, unadorned water glass, filling it half full of water from the tap. He arranged the flowers as best as he could and carried the ensemble back into his daughter’s bedroom. For a moment he paused in the doorway, contemplating where was best to leave his decoration. As he stood considering, the sun finally came across the windowsill’s bottom edge, sending a flashing bolt of summer sunlight across the entirety of the room. With an almost indiscernible twitch of his lips, John walked past the crib to set the roses on the sill. The sunlight reflected playfully through the water as it shifted from the motion of being set down, sending rays of sun darting over the ceiling. John gave a quick nod of approval and returned to the crib, leaning over the edge to check on the baby below. She continued to sleep soundly, her lips twitching occasionally as she suckled the air. John rubbed his calloused thumb over her forehead, chuckling softly at her noises of approval.

“Sleep well, **Síleas** , my love,” John muttered, a crease of thought crossing his forehead. His thumb settled between the baby’s brows, causing her forehead to furrow slightly. “I wonder…” John’s voice trailed off, a huff of irritation coming out as he suddenly straightened. “No. It doesn’t matter. The chance is small.” He stiffened his spine and gave a sharp nod, closing the door with the smallest of clicks as he pulled it shut behind him.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minerva McGonagall pays Baker Street a call. Sherlock deduces, Mrs. Hudson frets, and the case is on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, my friends! The response to this story has already been amazing; thanks so much! Hopefully this first regular chapter lives up to what we all hope. I have to say, I kind of BS-ed my way through the Moriarty being back thing from the end of series three. I didn't want that to be the focus of this story (I have other maniacal plans for it instead BWUAHAHAHA), so I took care of it in the cleanest way I could. I love love LOVE the thought of Sherlock interacting with McGonagall - their personalities just seem like they would be either fascinating or disastrous together, so it was fun to explore a bit. Also, it gave me a chance to toy around with some deductions, which is always an experience. Let me know what you think!

Sherlock sat hunched over the kitchen table, broad shoulders bent forward awkwardly with his elbows raised in a high, unnatural position above his head. Before him lay four flasks, each partially filled with a smoky white liquid. With painstaking precision, he let loose a single drop from the dropper grasped in his left hand, immediately following it with two drops from the one in his opposite hand. The liquid fizzled slightly, letting off the somewhat sticky smell of burnt toffee, and Sherlock’s head slammed forward to hit the table. The glasses rattled precariously as Sherlock groaned, maneuvering the goggles over his eyes between the table’s wooden edge and his face. Eventually one came free from the other, causing him to throw the goggles across the room until their progress was halted by the back of John’s armchair. He sat like that for a few moments, silently fuming, before his drama required a vocal outlet.

“DULL!” he shouted to no one in particular, proceeding to thunk his forehead against the table repeatedly. “I need a case!”

“You’ve only been finished with your last one two days ago,” came the scolding sounds of Mrs. Hudson. She stood in the doorway to the kitchen behind him, a tray containing tea and a handful of biscuits clasped in her hands. “You’d think you’d be ready for a break, what with all of that Moriarty business finally at an end.”

“Dull,” Sherlock repeated, raising his head only long enough to grunt at Mrs. Hudson’s offering. “Group of idiotic admirers of his attempting to bring back his ghost, simply a matter of tracking the whole lot down. Though I admit I was impressed by how far their reach had gotten before they made their move, it’s hardly surprising. My brother ought to have expected as much if he truly was paying attention.”

“Regardless, I’m glad it’s at its end,” Mrs. Hudson replied with a nod, pouring out a cup of tea. “Have you tried giving John a ring? It’s been ages since he brought the baby round.”

Sherlock grunted again, somehow managing to shrink his lanky body into the chair even further than it already was. “Out of town. Went to visit relatives or something or other.”

Mrs. Hudson paused before the fireplace in contemplation, teacup balanced in her fingers. She let out a sound of understanding before bringing the cup to the table. “Of course, this is the weekend he and Mary were planning a trip down towards Bristol. He mentioned something about visiting his parents’ graves while they were out there.”

“Exactly what I said,” Sherlock replied, leaping to his feet and ignoring the offering of tea in favour of his violin on the other side of the room. “Regardless, **dull**. And pointless, considering it means John is not easily at my disposal.”

“Sherlock, for heaven’s sake!” Mrs. Hudson cried, setting down the tea with an irritated chink and a sigh. “That poor man has had to put to rest far too many people in his life, yourself included. Show him your respect.”

“I respect John Watson highly, Mrs. Hudson, but what is the point if he isn’t nearby to appreciate it?” With that, the bow of his violin hit the strings, instantly breaking into a lament of a song appropriate for a man in such agitation. Mrs. Hudson sighed, making her way back down the stairs to her own flat. She was just about to enter her kitchen when the soft sound of someone knocking at the front door caught her attention.

The woman standing on 221b’s stoop was elderly, even in comparison to Mrs. Hudson, yet held a muted spryness that became apparent in the strong way she held herself. Despite the warm mid-July weather, she remained smartly dressed in a long tartan dress and black overcoat. Her hair, long ago changed to solid grey, sat tightly knotted at the base of her scull in an immaculate bun. Though she greeted Mrs. Hudson with a smile, it was tight lipped and stern.

“Would this be the home of Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson?” the woman asked, her voice as strong as her bearing.

Mrs. Hudson continued to gape for a moment, eventually catching herself with a slight shake and a gesture behind her. “Ah…yes, well, one of them, yes. Come with me, dearie, he’s just upstairs.”

The pair made their way up the stairs, the visitor’s heels clacking along with the creaks of wood as they climbed. The sounds of Sherlock’s violin grew louder as they approached, drifting in a downward spiral from door Mrs. Hudson had left open when she left minutes before. Though their approach could obviously be heard from his spot standing before one of the windows, he ignored them, back facing away from the rest of the room as he continued to play.

“Sherlock, you’ve a visitor,” Mrs. Hudson called over the drifting sounds of the violin. When Sherlock continued to ignore her, Mrs. Hudson threw her hands up with a sigh and turned back to the woman. “I’m dreadfully sorry, he’s always in a bit of a strop without a case. I do hope you’ve come with something that will catch his interest.”

“Not a case!” Sherlock suddenly cried, the bow jittering across the strings in an outcry of protest when he pulled the instrument away from his chin and finally turned to face them. His eyes narrowed in a glare that darted from one woman to the other. “You knocked rather than ring the bell, indicating that you are not here under distress, at least not for yourself. No stuttering down at the door in indecision, so obviously you came here with a purpose. Your face is agitated, but it’s an expression of resigned concern – something’s come up, something from the past that was assumed to be over and has proven otherwise. You purposefully asked for both myself **and** Dr. Watson, meaning that you either wish to take both of us on for a case, which is unlikely since your stance indicated the bearing of news of some sort rather than an outright question, or you wish to speak to one or both of us directly. Since you mentioned both names, I suspect you are looking either for the pair of us or John individually. Seeing as I have never seen you before in my life, I’m leaning slightly more towards just John. However, John Watson has not resided at 221b Baker Street for nearly two years now, leaving me to doubt how close a connection the two of you have – or, rather once had – if you haven’t been informed of his most recent address, let alone the various supposedly significant life events that have occurred for him. Therefore, not a case.” With that, Sherlock flopped himself down into his armchair, violin sprawled lazily across his lap.

“Oh Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson huffed with a shake of her head. “Must you be so rude to everyone who comes to call? Honestly, young man, what would your mother say?"

“Most likely something along the lines of what you just said,” Sherlock replied, a single finger dragging across the violin’s strings. His eyes, currently a light blue in the sunlight filtering in from the window to his left, bore unblinking over his visitor’s face, watching carefully for her reactions. She said nothing as he studied her, hardly moving as she studied him right back. The faintest of smiles, hardly more than a soft crinkle at the edge of one side of her mouth, was the only sign that she had even heard him speak. “Now then, what can I do for you, Doctor?”

“Merely a professor, Mr. Holmes, thank you,” she replied, fully entering the room and settling herself on the very edge of John’s armchair. “I’m afraid my field of expertise hardly ever goes on to the level of that sort of mastery.”

Giving a sharp nod, Sherlock continued to watch her as he called out to a retreating Mrs. Hudson, “Tea would be lovely, Mrs. Hudson, what an excellent suggestion.”

Mrs. Hudson paused on the stairs to call back, “Not your housekeeper, dear, not even when you’ve guests! Besides, I’ve just brought you a fresh pot not five minutes before, if you’d been at all bothered to pay attention.” They heard the door to her flat shut with a determined snap, finally leaving the pair alone in their dueling observations. Sherlock pulled out one of his many charming smiles, gesturing a pale hand toward the kitchen.

“Might I interest you in a cup of tea, Professor?” he asked, a mockery of courtesy turning his deep voice almost friendly. The woman smiled stiffly back, hands folding together on her lap.

“That would be lovely,” she replied, staring at Sherlock over the top rims of her spectacles. The two continued to stare one another down, neither moving in a silent showdown. Surprisingly, Sherlock found his eyelids fluttering downward towards the floor, an expression of reluctant submission falling over his face. He let out a loud huff of annoyance and jumped to his feet, tossing down his violin in his recently vacated chair and storming into the kitchen. He spent a moment fussing with the tea tray, organizing everything with an unnecessary loudness that carried nearly downstairs. Moments later, the readied tea tray sat between them, the woman with a slightly cooled cup in her frail hands and Sherlock returned to his seat, violin once more in hand. He glared over the tray at the woman as she took a sip, gaze eventually drawing back to his.

“How kind of you, Mr. Holmes, thank you,” she said, her courtesy as true as his. She set aside the cup to fully return her focus to Sherlock, her face still as blank as when she entered. “You’ve deduced much of what I’ve come here for thus far…what more can you find?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose into the fringe of curls on his forehead, eyes blinking a few times in surprise. He quickly took up the offered challenge, relishing the unexpected opportunity to study a willing participant. His eyes narrowed as he looked the woman up and down, taking a deep breath before he began. “You’re a professor, as we’ve discussed, but do not have a doctorate, meaning your field is most likely one of lesser interest. You mentioned earlier that it does not offer doctorate programs, so your lack of that specific title is not due to laziness, though the chance of that to begin with is laughable. You’re single, previously married, but the gentleman is long dead. You’re content in your position but worn, on the cusp of retirement but unsure if you are ready to give up on something you obviously enjoy. Your clothing is a traditional Scottish design, but you were raised in England, probably residing in both places from the pitch of your accent. Though you appear quite old, your movements are certain, lacking in the usual discomfort of one of advanced years. I would consider you to be no more than sixty-five, seventy at the absolute latest, and in your post for most of your life. You have no children of your own, making your students the absolute centre of your life. You’ve been through much, possibly even – no.” Sherlock jerked himself out of his endless diatribe, shooting back to his feet to circle the woman’s chair. His eyes were nearly turned to slits as he knelt down on one knee before her, face level with her own. “You couldn’t possibly have been in battle.”

“You underestimate me, Sherlock Holmes,” she chided, taking another sedate sip of tea. “I must admit that your prejudice toward the elderly surprises me.”

“But **how**?” Sherlock muttered, head twisting in every direction in search of an answer. “Even the healthiest of individuals feel the limitations of the human body eventually, and the position of teacher hardly leaves one in the ripe physical state for **fighting**.”

“Never doubt a woman whose students and home have been threatened,” the woman replied seriously, causing Sherlock’s rapid dissection to screech to a halt. “I’m certain if anyone could understand something of that sort, it would be you.”

“We’ve never met,” he said slowly, hand resting on the arm of her chair to balance himself.

“We have not, but even dead you made yourself well known.” She took a moment to watch him as he moved back to sit on the floor, back resting against his seat. “You said John does not live here any longer. Would you happen to have his most recent address?”

“Of course I do, but it will do you little good,” Sherlock replied, hand ruffling absentmindedly through his hair. “He’s gone, out of town for the weekend. You’re only here in London briefly. By the time he comes back, you’ll be long gone.”

“I have means to return,” she said with a nod. “His address, Mr. Holmes? I’m afraid the information I have is of upmost importance.”

“What reason do I have to trust you? What is to say you do not wish John harm? You haven’t even given your name, Professor…”

“McGonagall. I knew John well once – he was a student of mine when he was young. The matter concerns the deaths of John’s parents; I am aware of just how close the two of you are, but this is not information I am willing to give up for anyone other than the man himself.”

“John’s parents…” Sherlock trailed off, eyes settling on the fireplace. “I knew they were both dead, but beyond that, there’s little he will say or I can deduce. What could an old schoolteacher of John’s possibly know of his parents’ deaths?”

McGonagall abruptly stood, readjusting her coat as she did. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Holmes, and give John my regards. Tell him my Floo is always open if he feels so inclined to discuss the matter, and he is welcome back at Hogwarts whenever he pleases.” With a sharp nod and a wish for him to have a pleasant day, McGonagall turned and started down the stairs.

Sherlock had sprung to his feet when McGonagall had, and now that she was leaving, he raced to catch up. “No!” he cried as he slid past her and blocked the way, the pair of them halfway down the stairs. “What is Hogwarts? What is a Floo?”

McGonagall smirked at him and rested a hand on the railing. “Can’t you deduce it?”

“Not even I can see everything, as my darling older brother loves to point out,” Sherlock scowled, impatience rising. “What are you refusing to tell me, Professor McGonagall?”

“If John hasn’t informed you, I have no right to do it either.” For the first time since they’d met, McGonagall shot him a pitying look. Frown lines creased her forehead, causing him to echo the expression. “I have no doubt that you and John Watson are very close, but if you truly feel for him what I suspect, you will let him tell you his secrets. His life has been a difficult one, like so many of his peers’, and he was forced to grow up so much sooner than he ought. I will not reveal John Watson’s past for him, particularly such a past as his. Besides, the chances of you believing anyone’s words other than his own in this are doubtful.”

When Sherlock simply stared up at her, McGonagall pushed past him with a gentle nudge, continuing down the stairs to pull open the door. Before she stepped back out into the street, she turned to study the man frozen on the steps. “It has been a fascinating visit, Mr. Holmes. Thank you for the tea, and don’t forget to relay my message to John.” With that, she pulled the door shut behind her.

Sherlock remained quiet and stoic on the steps for a few seconds that felt like half a lifetime. His mind raced through the conversation, storing away the significant information into their appropriate sections of his mind palace. With a start, he returned to the present, realizing belatedly that his most recent object of intrigue had vacated the premises. He bolted down the stairs to yank open the door, practically collapsing out onto the pavement and frantically shooting his head about for a glimpse of the distinct tartan. He caught it just as McGonagall turned a corner not far down the street, surprisingly going down an alley that he knew held little more than a few empty trash bins. He was dashing after her less than a second later, but when he entered the alley it was completely and utterly devoid of human life. Sherlock felt his jaw drop open slightly, his wide eyes darting across the entirety of the space but finding nothing. He took a few steps farther down the small space, noiseless as his bare feet trod across the grimy pavement. Quickly regaining himself from his surprise, he began to assess the area, taking in possible escape routes. The end of the alley stood blocked by a solid brick wall, newly renovated less than a year before from the solidity of the cement between the blocks. To both the right and left were the walls of the buildings at each side, no windows or doors leading out to the small area. From Sherlock’s careful assessment, there appeared to be only one way in or out, yet the space was undoubtedly empty.

Sherlock made his way back to 221b, ignoring the burn of the sun baked pavement on the soles of his feet. As soon as he had returned to the living room, he dove for his laptop (actually his for once, as was more likely now that John had moved out) and settled into his chair. He pulled up a search and typed in Hogwarts, scrolling through page after page of random information leading him to nothing of use. The same resulted when searching for Floo and McGonagall’s name, leaving Sherlock even more irritable than when the morning began. By the time he looked up again from the screen, darkness had fallen, dousing him in little more than the bright eerie glow of his screen and the dull yellow of the street lamps peering in from outside. He scrounged about in the cushions of the chair, eventually uncovering his buried phone, before sending out a quick text and leaping to his feet. Surely somewhere in the city of London he could find an open library or bookstore, possibly one that could provide more than the internet had. He tossed the phone onto the mantle before heading for his bedroom, intending to finally get dressed now that he had a proper reason to do so. The message on the phone’s screen glowed on the scull’s ivory surface from where they sat side by side, open for any to read.

**Met an old professor of yours today. McGonagall. Investigating more. SH**

Meanwhile, just outside of Bristol, John jolted awake at the buzz of his cell with a groan.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John pays his parents a call. Angst ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daaaaaamn, y'all. Thanks for all of these crazy awesome kudos and bookmarks. Here's hoping the story is as good as you hope. XD If you recall from those tags up there, i mentioned angst. Well, here there be angst. I did not set out for this story to have quite so many feels, particularly for John, but it happened. Sorry, John. You'll get snuggles in the end. The main purpose for this chapter is to give some background on John and his family specifically. Additionally, ten points to the Hogwarts house of your choice if you can figure out the real life individual I based one of these characters on. Enjoy and let me know what you think!

John woke early the next morning despite his late night text, which he had chosen to ignore for the time being when he realized it was from Sherlock and nothing of immediate importance. He, Mary, and the baby were staying with a few friends for the weekend, both as a way to introduce their daughter to them and have willing babysitters for the visit they would be making later that day. John climbed nearly silently from the bed in the guest room, leaving Mary to continue sleeping while he checked on their child. She too lay content and fast asleep in her crib, her eyes darting about underneath her eyelids with enthusiasm as she dreamt. John left her with a quick kiss on her forehead and padded into the bathroom to take a quick shower. As he tousled a burgundy towel through his grey-blonde hair, the memory of Sherlock’s message came to him and led him back to the bedside table. He scrubbed at his jaw as he picked the phone up and scrolled through the texts, thoughts more focused on considering whether he ought to bother shaving that morning than whatever Sherlock had sent. Any contemplation of his daily routine, however, instantly fell away once he read the words Sherlock had sent a few hours before.

Sherlock had met McGonagall. Assumedly Minerva McGonagall, headmistress (possibly even former by now; John had been so disconnected from that world that it was entirely possible she’d deservedly retired years before) of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Even at the simple passing thought of the name, John’s mind immediately snapped back to memories, many of them overall awful – meetings with the Order, dueling with Death Eaters, watching his friends die. It was a sort of PTSD all on its own, no less significant than that which he’d gained fighting in Muggle wars, but of a different sort, laced with scenes that were dancing with sparks of magic rather than gunfire. There were happy flashbacks in addition to the fear and pain, thoughts of doing homework with friends in the common room, practicing new spells in class, lounging down by the lake once finals were over, but they were far outnumbered by the less favourable ones. It was a world John Watson hadn’t interacted with in far too long a time, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about being suddenly thrust back into it once more, particularly right now.

“Hmm, John?” Mary’s voice, gravelly with sleep, came from behind him, rousing him back from the depths of his thoughts. “Is everything all right? Did Cecy wake?”

“No, she’s fine,” John muttered, staring down at his phone with a blank expression. The glow of the screen had long since gone dark. “Just…thinking.”

“We don’t have to go, if you’d rather not,” Mary replied in a low voice, sitting up and reaching out to wrap an arm around his chest. He supposed the move was intended to be comforting, but at the moment it mostly felt constricting.

“It’s not that,” he said, clutching the phone in a tighter grip. “Just something from Sherlock. He sent me a text last night at bloody two in the morning. Shouldn’t be surprised, but it got me thoughtful. We can still go. I want to.”

Mary nodded, her forehead rubbing against his bad shoulder with the movement. John tried not to flinch, but given where his mind had been, it wasn’t a surprise that the motion caused a sensitive flashback jolting through him that he fought to subdue. Luckily he was saved from a most likely uncomfortable discussion of how this trip wouldn’t do his still occasionally troubled mind much good by the sounds of a newly waking infant.

“Ah, the princess awakes,” Mary said with a chuckle, drawing away from John to draw on her dressing gown and approach the crib’s side. “Morning, Cecelia Watson. Are you ready for another day of being spoiled rotten?”

John tried to chuckle along with Mary, but his focus could only be distracted for so long before it meandered back to Sherlock’s text. He considered half a dozen possible replies to it, ranging from **McGonagall who?** to **Bit not good, Sherlock. More like bloody fucking hell not good.** before sending one out. He kept it simple with a **Not now, Sherlock. We’ll talk when I get home.**

John offered to watch over Cecelia while Mary got ready, a suggestion she readily accepted. Tossing his phone on the pillow as though he could toss away the memories that came with it, he returned to the crib’s side and scooped her into his arms, automatically smiling when she gurgled at the movement. Her eyes shone brightly as she smiled up at him, the noises acting as her good morning greeting. Though his daughter had been able to easily alter his mood regardless of the circumstances in the five months she had been theirs, John couldn’t keep fight down the dancing touches of reflection that Sherlock’s message had given him at bay. The fact that it was July didn’t help the matter – not even fully reimmursing himself in the Muggle world could cause John to forget the celebrated birth of the Boy Who Lived. He mentally counted back the years; Harry Potter would be thirty-five in a few brief weeks.

Mary found him absentmindedly rocking Cecelia, his expression distant and unfocused. It took her gentle prod to his arm to bring him back to the present. “You sure you’re okay, John?” she asked as they transferred Cecelia from one set of arms to another. “You seem off.”

“Just the date, I suppose,” John replied with a tired smile. “It’s always been one of the harder ones, among others.”

Mary shot him an understanding smile. “Go on and get dressed while I get Cecy settled. We’ll head out to the spot whenever you’re ready. We’ve got time.”

“Yeah, I know,” John sighed, digging through one of the suitcases for a pair of jeans. His head shot up with a frown from where he knelt, lines of wrinkles forming between his eyes. “Actually, Mary, I hate to ask it, but…you think I could head out on my own today? Just today, I promise. We’ll stop by with Cecy tomorrow, but I think I’d rather be on my own this time round.”

“Of course. Don’t worry about us; we’ll find something to amuse ourselves, won’t we, Princess?” At the question, Mary grinned down at the baby and rocked her a few times, causing Cecelia to giggle happily. John chuckled at the sound as he finished dressing, but his heart wasn’t in it. He snatched up his cell as he made his way from the room, calling out a goodbye to the two as he went. By taking the spare back stairs, he managed to avoid interacting with anyone he’d rather avoid at the moment and make his way to the car they decided to rent when they arrived. Silently as was possible, he settled himself in the vehicle and made his way down the drive toward the cemetery.

John’s father was originally born in the small town just north of Bristol, growing up there and raising his children in the same home he was born in. How he managed to get out enough to meet a young woman, let alone one from Scotland up north, was always a tale that led to a few laughs as it was retold down at the pub over evening drinks. Síleas had been beautiful since the day she was born, hardly even appearing as though she aged even at the time of her death. The lives of the Watson family were surprisingly happy ones given where they all ended up in later years, up until the day of John’s eleventh birthday at the very least.

John drove steadily down the familiar gravel roads, still covered in the same patterns of rocks and roots he remembered from his youth. The town only had two cemeteries, having finally outgrown the plot in the east when John was in the military, and he had distinct memories of dares with his friends to enter the area at night, made eerie by the lack of street lamps and massive trees turned murderous by starlight and moon beam. It was beside one of these enormous trees, an apple that had stopped properly flowering long before the plot was purchased, that his parents resided.

The road, if the hole laden and pitchy patch of gravel could even be considered that, halted just before the cemetery’s rusted gate. John parked beside it and climbed out, taking a deep gulp of faintly sea salt tinged air before proceeding to the creaky opening. The sound of the gate’s entrance unfastening echoed across the patch of land, though the birds and various other wildlife who called it their home hardly paused in their noise to pay any mind to the long familiar sound. John’s sneakers swished through the overgrown grass when he made his way inside, eyes casually flowing from one gravestone to another, taking in names both familiar and otherwise. His parents’ graves were farther into the centre, so there were various memorials to pass before reaching the one he sought. A few had flags or other similar badges of honor, indicating military service and accolades, proclaiming how one sacrificed oneself for queen and country. Many had flowers, occasionally fresh but mostly long dried and dead, and John briefly considered whether he ought to have brought some himself before he laughed bitterly at himself. If he really wished to leave a gift at the grave, he had the means to do so.

John suddenly came to an abrupt halt when he reached the bottom of the last sloping bit of hill right before the graves. The headstones were still intact, dull grey against a sea of darker grey over browning green, but they were not alone. A solitary figure stood between the two recently replaced headstones, shoulders hunched so far forward that the head topped with a mass of russet curls could barely be seen over them. John briefly considered whether he ought to come back later when his choice was made for him. The woman turned and met his eyes, navy meeting navy.

Harry Watson was technically two years older than her brother, but life and alcohol had aged her enough that she looked to be nearly ten years more than that. Though the curls on her head still had a touch of their old crazed life to them, John’s memory of their madness from their youth helped him to realize just how dull, lifeless, and thin the strands had become. Wrinkles lined her eyes and mouth, her skin even paler than it was naturally, and her clothes looked as though they barely held together enough to stay on her limp and once curvy frame. The only jewelry she wore was her former wedding ring, though it looked cheap and paltry with the jewel missing from the center. The lines at the corners of her eyes, lines that ought to have been a result of laughter and joy, became even more pronounced when they narrowed at the approaching man.

“John dear,” she said when he stopped only a few feet away. “What a pleasant surprise. Lucky me, to finally get to see the golden child, even if it’s not me you came to visit.”

“Come on, Harry, leave off it,” John replied with a sigh and a hand running through his short hair. “You’ve been invited to visit from Mary more times than I can remember, provided you’re sober. It isn’t all my fault.”

“Oh, of course not,” she said, turning back to face the graves. Her voice rang thick with painful sarcasm. “Heaven forbid you take all of the blame.”

John forced himself not to shoot back a retort, clenching and unclenching his fists as he strode to her side. Even though they were technically side-by-side, an awkward emptiness resided in the foot of air between them. Before John got his letter, such an occurrence would have been unheard of.

Neither chose to speak for several minutes, instead opting to stare down at the lettering on the graves at their feet. The matching death dates, exactly eighteen years before, seemed to shine out from the material more prominently than anything else. Eventually Harry squatted down on creaking ankles, balancing herself on the balls of her feet as she reached out a hand to trace the numbers in the carved stone.

“These are new,” she stated, her tone on the verge of conversational. “Business with the consulting lunatic really going that well?”

“Wedding gifts, actually. Sherlock’s brother gave them to us. I was surprised at the sentimentality – it’s not usually the Holmes sort of thing, and Mycroft and I aren’t exactly close, but it was a lovely gesture anyway. You like them?”

Harry shrugged and straightened back up, hands diving into the pockets of her jacket. “Better than the single one from before, at least. They deserved to each have their own.”

“It was the best we could do at the time, you know that,” John muttered, attempting to disguise his low simmering resentment. He’d been employed as a Junior Healer at the time and hardly had enough cash on his own for his single room flat, let alone funeral expenses for two. The fact that all of Harry’s cash went to booze didn’t exactly help matters.

“And by **we** you mean **you** , naturally,” she said bitterly. She was trying to conceal the hurt in her voice, but John had known her his entire life and was closer to her than anyone at one point; he could pick up on his sister’s emotions better than his own at times. “It’s not like I was exactly helpful at the time.”

“If you’re the one to say it,” John replied before he could stop himself. He mentally cringed as Harry spun to face him, her dead eyes now lit with fury and sorrow.

“Oh yes, because perfect little Johnny was the selfless one, going off to that fucking school and learning all his wizarding shit while Harry sat at home and drank herself stupid when she wasn’t getting fired from yet another job. How was it being the ideal child, John? Not only talented in the usual sorts of ways but a bloody wizard to top it all off?”

“Harry, please,” John begged, reaching out to grasp her elbow. She nearly lost her balance from how quickly she moved away to avoid the touch. “Can’t we meet up for once without bickering? Particularly on today of all days. Mum hated it.”

“ **Meet up** ,” she scoffed. “You say that as though you didn’t purposefully avoid phoning me to ask if I might want to come down with your wee perfect family to see our parents’ graves on the day they died.”

“If I’d known you remembered, I bloody well might have! Jesus, Harry, do you have to be impossible all of the time? I’m sorry, all right?”

Harry snorted like a bull on the attack and paced over to lean against the tree’s rotting trunk. “Yes, because you’re always to be the one to apologize, you’re always the one to take the blame for everyone’s faults. You have to be the sacrificial lamb at the altar as well as fantastic with everything else besides.”

“I might as well, since no matter what I say or do I’m the one you see in the wrong!” John’s temper had finally risen from a dull simmer at the back of his throat to a roar barreling through his chest. “What do you want from me, Harry? I can’t win with you. It’s either you’re angry with me for being the one actually in the wrong or pissed that I take the blame! No matter what, it always ends with us angry and no longer speaking, so why should I fucking try?”

For a while neither of them spoke, John standing soaked in his fury and Harry waiting for it to die back down. When she did speak, her words were the complete opposite of helpful. “This never would have been an issue if you hadn’t turned out to be a ruddy wizard.”

John had no response at first but to gape over at his slightly shorter sister, completely thrown by her words. “You’re joking,” he muttered, his eyebrows raised high on his forehead. “You must be fucking joking. Are you seriously trying to place this blame on me, the **deaths of our parents** , on the fact that I was born a wizard? Which, I’m inclined to point out, is entirely out of my control! Mum and Dad weren’t wizards, none of their families were wizards, so it’s not as though it was passed down to me and shirked over you. And given all of the trouble its caused, I should think it’s rather obvious that I’d rather not have the gift at all, thanks very bloody much.” John’s voice stayed steady and low, reverting to the darkly analytical tone he used when questioning a suspect on a case. On the last sentence, however, he was unable to keep the somewhat choked ache out of his voice. “I would give anything, **anything** , to trade my powers for having Mum and Dad back. If you haven’t realized that in the past eighteen years, Harriet, you’re even greater a disappointment of a big sister than I ever could have expected.”

Once finished, John’s back straightened into military rest and he cleared his throat, sniffling the touch of tears from the back of it. Without looking over to see if Harry noticed, he spun and began walking away, his stride steady. The scuffling of her boots on the grass told him she had followed, and he clenched his eyes shut in a fight for control over her inevitable tirade.

“John, wait.” Harry reached out and snatched at his elbow in a mirror of his previous move, causing him to jerk harshly away and tense in preparation for a physical altercation. She released him almost instantly, realizing how the action may have seemed, and held up her hands in a sign of surrender. “John, seriously, that’s not what I meant at all. You know how I am – my mouth speaks before giving my brain the chance to tell it off, it always has. Your powers are amazing…I’ve been jealous since the day that letter arrived, wondering why I wasn’t good enough, why no matter how hard I tried it was always you who was the best of us, the smartest, the kindest…I’m sorry, really I am, I just meant – “

“I’m sure we both understand quite well what you meant,” John interrupted in a clipped voice. “I’m done here for the day, but I plan on bringing Mary and the baby round tomorrow afternoon before we head back to London. Do me the favour of being gone by then, if nothing else.” He continued to make his way back to the car, the shouts of Harry calling his name carrying across the cemetery long after he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check it out, Baby Watson has a name! The prologue had a teeny hint, but you finally know what I named the little darling. I chose Cecelia both because I really like the name and because it has a lovely equivalent - Síleas - in Scot. I like the idea of John wanting to further his mother's Scottish legacy by naming his daughter after her and occasionally calling her that. ^.^


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft sticks his nose in Sherlock's business, as usual, and they receive a call for a case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're really starting to get into the plot of the story with this chapter. I had lots of fun writing Mycroft - I think I just enjoy writing the somewhat stuffy characters who have a knack for sass and wit. XD Also, this chapter gets us started into the case; the fic itself isn't necessarily what I'd call a casefic, but the case is a decently significant plot point that I wanted to make sure I developed fairly well. Before anyone says anything, yes, I borrowed a bit from the movies here. I'm fully aware that an offhand comment John says later on is something that only happened in the Deathly Hallows movies rather than in the books, but it worked really well with my plot so I went for it. Yesterday's Pottermore info was surprisingly well-timed to be helpful here, particularly in that it reminded me of some things on the Leaky Cauldron that I didn't remember. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think!

Sherlock hadn’t heard from John since his initial reply on Saturday morning, resulting in him spending the entirety of the next two days digging up as many bits of information on the few clues he had been given that he could. He’d been unable to truly get anywhere the first night of his search; though living in the capital of the United Kingdom, not to mention one of the most populated and active cities in Europe, there were few bookstores or libraries open at three in the morning. Fiery with impatience and irritation, he meandered the streets of London in a stroppy huff until finally he was able to gain admittance somewhere. He spent the day jumping from one pile of books to another, his irritation growing with each unsuccessful hour that passed.

As though his time and mind weren’t being abused enough by such a particularly determined mystery, an even more unwelcome guest paid 221b a call on Sunday afternoon. After physical books led him nowhere, Sherlock delved back into the internet, scrounging deeper and deeper into the depths of the human interaction in search of answers. He just began to feel as though he was gaining ground when the heavy footfalls of an outrageously expensive pair of dress shoes tapped up the stairs, accompanied by the monotonous tick of metal against wood. Sherlock chose to ignore the man as he strode into the living room and stood before him, blank eyes studying the piles of notes and books that lay scattered across the short table before the couch. Sherlock sat on the floor, back resting against the lower portion of the couch and legs contorted beneath the table’s low legs, and typed furiously at the keys of the laptop that was directly in front of him. His jaw clenched around the pen resting in his mouth, irritated both with his search and his visitor.

“Are we enjoying ourselves, baby brother?” Mycroft inquired, his voice smooth and completely lacking in any sign genuine curiosity. Sherlock huffed and snatched the pen from his teeth, eyes still glued to the computer screen.

“Whatever it is you’ve come to ask, Mycroft, the answer is no. I’ve more important tasks at hand than to once again act as your minion.”

“So little respect given what I have done for you,” Mycroft chided, making his way over to the fireplace and choosing to take a seat in John’s armchair. His long fingers locked over his knees once he lowered himself down, umbrella placed with delicate care at his side. “Aren’t you even going to try and pretend to be courteous and ask if I require tea?”

“Get your own bloody tea, I’m busy,” Sherlock growled in reply, one hand reaching up to ruffle at his curls. From their particularly maddened appearance, it was clear to see that personal hygiene had been forgone in the excitement of the chase.

“Has it even occurred to you to inquire from me about what you’re looking for?” Mycroft asked with an air of doting frustration he often found himself using around his brother. “I am, as you do so love to point out, a minor figure of the British government.”

“You are the British government,” Sherlock corrected, mouth contorted into a frustrated scowl as his hands scurried about in search of a particular piece of paper. His eyes narrowed down at it once the piece was found, pupils racing across the page as he read. “I may be distracted, Mycroft, but I am far from stupid.”

“I never said otherwise.” They continued without speaking for several minutes, Sherlock grumbling to himself as he ducked between the laptop and his mass of notes and Mycroft merely watching. Eventually he cleared his throat and stated, “I normally am one to encourage enthusiastic research, as you well know, but in this instance I’m afraid I’ll need to discourage your venture.”

“And what could possibly make you think I would listen to your advice now given all of your previously unsuccessful attempts?”

“Because this time it is for John’s sake.” Sherlock’s head shot up for the first time since Mycroft entered, his eyes narrowing at the man with suspicion. Mycroft held his gaze, his expression as serious and closed as ever. “If you truly care for Dr. Watson, Sherlock, you’ll let him alone in this one thing. If John had wished to disclose this information regarding his past with you, he would have by now. Listen to me when I say that you are delving into information far beyond your current understanding.”

“What would you know of it?” Sherlock snapped, untangling his long limbs and rising to his feet. “What could this possibly be about for John to discuss it with you and not me?”

“Drop it, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied, mirroring Sherlock to stand. “This isn’t some game for you to learn everything you can before the timer runs out; this is a human being, John Watson to be precise, and his past. If you truly care for him as I suspect you might, you will allow him to speak on his own terms in this one thing, if nothing else.”

Sherlock slowly approached, eyes slinking across Mycroft before he came to stand right before him. “You know more. More even than John, or more than he realizes you know, I’m beginning to suspect. But what, exactly, is there to know? And why would you, of all people in John’s life, need to know it?”

“I repeat, baby brother: **drop it**. I have no doubt Dr. Watson will explain all, but give him the proper chance to do so. This is far too deep a pit for you to be exploring without the proper light.” Mycroft snatched up his umbrella, sent Sherlock a quick nod of farewell, and was down the stairs and out the door before Sherlock had the chance to think of a response. Eventually he turned to glance back at his research, a small frown on his face, before giving out a huff and storming into his bedroom.

~~~

John finally got the courage to call on Sherlock later that week. After the disaster of seeing Harry at the cemetery, he had been more than ready to return back to London and the clinic. They’d been dealing with a fairly stressful time – one of the doctors was on vacation for the week and London’s youth had, for some reason, decided that it was the ideal time to break as many bones as possible – but he could only delay the inevitable for so long. He was actually surprised that Sherlock hadn’t been texting him constantly to question him. The man’s silence could mean one of various possibilities had occurred, and John could only hope that he had done the unthinkable and forgotten he’d even asked about McGonagall in the first place.

He stopped in to say hello to Mrs. Hudson before continuing up to the flat, determinately denying to himself that it was a tactic to delay the inevitable. She asked after the baby and he happily replied until even she could tell that he was stalling. Sending him away with the promising message of Sherlock acting anxious ever since that strange woman had visited while he’d been away, John was forced up the stairs to face the madness.

Shockingly the flat appeared much as it always was. The clutter, organized in precisely the way that Sherlock saw fit, still lay scattered throughout the room, the scull still on the mantle, the furniture amazingly intact. Sherlock himself was buzzing with restless energy, just finishing buttoning his suit jacket as John entered. He paused in his pacing when he noticed John, currently stormy grey eyes lighting with excitement.

“Ah, John, excellent, I was just about to text you,” he declared, scooping up his cell phone and pocketing it. “Lestrade has a case, at least a seven, possibly even higher from what I can tell. He needs us immediately.” He dashed down the stairs, John following close behind, and called out a farewell to Mrs. Hudson as they left. John hardly had the chance to catch up before he was climbing into a cab and they were off.

“So what have we got, then?” John asked, settling back into his seat. The excitement radiating off the other man was infectious, and John soon found himself echoing Sherlock’s smile.

“A triple homicide,” Sherlock crooned, unable to keep still as they darted between cars. “A local found the bodies in an alleyway when he was taking out the trash. Lestrade mentioned something about unusual markings on their foreheads.” The cab came to an abrupt stop and Sherlock tossed a few bills at the cabbie before vaulting out, John right behind. He froze in his tracks, however, when he realized exactly where they were.

John usually tried to avoid Charing Cross Road, having no immediate reason to travel down there with its inevitable excess of unwanted memories. In fact, the last time he’d been on the street, and this pub in particular, was over twenty years ago, back when he still needed to visit Diagon Alley for the proper school supplies. Sherlock ignored it as he marched down the alley to the pub’s left, his more astute than normal eyes darting across the Leady Cauldron’s magically protected exterior without a second glance. John attempted to remain unphased, but he couldn’t help the chill at the coincidence as he followed close behind.

“Took you two bloody long enough,” Lestrade called from about halfway down the alley. Police officers littered the entirety of the small space, scrounging about in the semi-darkness caused even early in the afternoon from the pair of tall buildings at either side. From afar, the bodies seemed fairly standard – laying side by side in crumbled heaps, they appeared to have tiny scorch marks covering nearly every exposed bit of skin, though each piece of clothing remained fully intact. Sherlock stepped forward to kneel by the first body, eyes darting over it as Lestrade continued. “Like I told you on the phone, they were found about an hour ago by the shop keeper next door. They can’t have been here long, given he was the first to notice, but we’ve got no idea how they got here without at least someone seeing or hearing something.” Sherlock snapped on a glove from his pocket and turned the dead man’s head gently, rubbing a thumb across his forehead. As John caught a brief glimpse of the white skin, he was forced to stifle his gasp.

Across the man’s forehead was a faint etching, hardly even distinguishable between the other more random scarring. John knelt on the opposite side of the body, fingers desperately groping in his pockets for his own set of latex gloves. His hands visibly shook as he took the man’s face out of Sherlock’s grasp, pushing up the scraggly brown hair on his forehead and leaning in closer. Written in a jagged scrawl, John could just make out a word scratched into the man’s flesh.

“Mudblood,” John whispered, voice quieter than a release of breath. He scrambled over the body and dove at the next one, ignoring Sherlock’s inquiries as he sought out the scarring on the other victims. The other two, another man and a woman, each bore the same word as the first man, the insult burned deep into their skin. John sat back on his ankles, hands shaking slightly while Sherlock fought to bring him back to reality.

“John? John! Come on, John, I need you to come back to me. What’s a Mudblood? What does it mean? JOHN!”

He jolted at the noise and fully collapsed back into a sitting position. He peeled off the gloves and shook his head, attempting to physically force the creeping terror from his mind, before finally blinking a few times and meeting Sherlock’s worried eyes. “Right, yeah. Sorry. Just…I’ve seen this before. More than once, actually.”

“What is it, John?” Sherlock continued to encourage, a hand resting comfortably on his shoulder as he knelt on one knee at John’s side. “Does it mean something specific?”

“I…I dunno,” John lied, unable to do much more than shake his head again. He fought down a wave of unusual nausea as memories flooded him. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock caught his meaning and hauled John to his feet, slinging one of his limp arms across his shoulders. “Out of my way!” he snapped as he half carried John out into the open air, helping him sit on the kerb shakily. John’s head hung between his knees as he fought to take in deep breaths, his eyes and jaw both clenched shut. “My God, John, what the hell is this to turn you so out of sorts?”

Eventually John’s breathing evened out enough for him to raise his head, though his face was still startlingly pale. “I’ve seen this exactly twice,” he managed to blurt out, his voice thick with disgust. “The last time was when a young woman had the same word burned into her forearm as a form of torture. The other was when I found my parents.”

Despite himself, Sherlock felt his mouth gape open in shock. He’d known that John’s parents were dead, but beyond that, there was little John would share about them beyond very passing comments. This new bit of knowledge of John’s past raced through the pathways of his mind palace into the area reserved specifically for John, filed carefully into the gradually growing folder regarding John’s childhood. His forehead furrowed in consideration as his mouth closed into a tight, thin line. “Mudblood…obviously derogatory, meant as an insult, most likely in regard to the individual’s upbringing or lineage…but I’ve studied your family tree, John, there is no obvious reason why any of the typical prejudice groups of society would be inclined to insult your – John!” Sherlock was interrupted by John jumping to his feet and dashing towards the Leaky Cauldron. “John, what on Earth – “

John ignored him to yank the Leaky’s screeching door open, darting into the abrupt semi-darkness and blinking through the adjustment to search for the barkeep. Tom still ran the place the last time he’d visited, but the man was old and it had been years. The large, welcoming room was fairly empty, most likely cleared of the usual lunchtime crowd a while earlier, but the few individuals present jolted around in surprise at the sudden noise.

Sherlock, meanwhile, found himself once again gaping after John, watching in bemused confusion as he darted off in the direction of the abandoned building on beside the alleyway that held their crime scene. Between one blink and another, John had darted inside what had abruptly become a fairly unimpressive pub. Sherlock blinked in stunted confusion at the sudden change, gradually approaching the entrance John had left open to peer inside. He reached out a hand to run a finger down the door, finding rough yet solid wood under his touch. He reached forward with more confidence to fully grasp it and tentatively entered after John, eyebrows rising so high on his forehead that they nearly disappeared into his curls.

John stood at the edge of the bar, talking with a tall and completely bald man who leaned heavily against the counter. The two appeared to be getting on well, the man friendly and open as John spoke. Sherlock slowly made his way to John’s side, eyes darting about at a dizzying pace as he attempted to take everything in at once.”

“…just out in the alley. Did you hear anything out there this morning or have any rough folk pass through?”

“None of my folk have said anything about it, no. Corner’s a bit daft, but he’s not entirely stupid. He’d know better than to let something happen without telling me or contacting Hannah about it. But you know how it is now, John – we’re hardly as careful as we were before, and most of his folk are locked up or long dead. Mudblood on their heads, you said? Are you certain?”

John gave a jerk of a nod, mouth pressed into a tense line. “I’m positive, Tom. I’ve seen this before – this is Death Eaters, and ones who have been at it before.”

“John?” Sherlock finally spoke, his confusion radiating out in waves just through the single word. “What is this?”

Jolting around, John could hardly do more than gape up at Sherlock while the man at the bar said, “Oh, pardon there, sir. I’ll just be with you in a mo.”

“Hold off, Tom.” John waved a hand absentmindedly at his companion, walking up to Sherlock with uncertainty in his eyes. “Er…Sherlock? How, erm, how exactly did you, well… **get in here**?”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock demanded, his irritation flaring in the unfamiliar sensation of not understanding. “I followed you in, John, what do you think?”

John’s jaw worked silently, eventually able to let out a single syllable. “What?”

Sherlock sighed, his usual air of being highly put upon by the stupidity of humanity radiating from the sound. “You heard me, John, and you know how tedious I find repetition. Now kindly elaborate on just how a dilapidated, abandoned building somehow transformed into a slightly less dilapidated pub.”

“Wait, is he a – “ Tom interrupted himself to stumble around the counter, wrinkled hands groping about for a wooden cane that stood close by. “Bloody hell, John, you know you can’t just go round bringing Muggles in! You’ve been out of touch for a bit, but you can’t have forgotten that!”

“But I didn’t bring him in,” John mused, a faint crinkle of a bewildered grin at the corner of his mouth. “He just followed. Sherlock, you just **followed**.”

“Tedious. What did you call me?”

John’s face turned stern and his shoulders set themselves in a sturdy pose, his head bobbing in a nod to himself as he met Sherlock’s eyes. “No, not now. We’ve a case on now. Focus, Sherlock – dead bodies, remember?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he considered. With a reluctant sigh, he turned back to Tom to question him. “This isn’t over, John Watson. Now, do you own this establishment?”

“Not anymore, but I keep things orderly when she’s off at school,” Tom replied, his hairless, wrinkled head cocked to the side in confusion. “I’m afraid I didn’t notice anything off. Just the usual crowd about today, and most came and went through Diagon Alley.”

“Diagon Alley?” Sherlock turned to a thoughtful looking John. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Probably for good reason,” John muttered with a shake of his head. “Mind stopping out with us to see if you recognize the victims, Tom?”

“Not at all. Oye, Corner!” A brown haired head popped up from the other end of the bar, the man quickly shooting John and Sherlock a hello as he approached. “Mind the bar for a bit? I’ll be back in a tick.”

They led a hobbling Tom out to the alley, where he carefully looked over the trio of bodies. He rose back to his feet with a creak and a groan, shaking his head. “Sorry, John, I’ve never seen them before in the Leaky. Are they some of us?”

“We’re not sure of IDs yet, as far as I know,” John replied before Sherlock could respond. Despite the fact that the case had the potential to draw even Sherlock’s scattered attention, the constant allusions to John’s unknown past caused his well-organized mind to refocus itself constantly. The words were like being thrust into a new country and forced to learn the language through interaction, some of it mixing together into a semblance of understanding but most of it meaning nothing without further context. He itched to learn more, to sit John or even Tom down and interrogate them like one of his suspects until they cracked. The lack of understanding was as uncomfortable as needing a fix, causing the same churning of anxiety and turmoil to simmer low in his stomach and make its way out until he felt as though it would burst from his fingertips in an attempt at escape. The feeling hadn’t quite reached an uncontrollable state yet, but the buildup made Sherlock long to be done with the case so he could properly focus on it.

He was shaken from his thoughts by John saying his name. John’s face slowly came into focus, the familiar half smile that crawled out at the left corner of his mouth making Sherlock rush back to the present even more quickly. He shook away the irritating rush of warmth that smile always caused to focus on John’s words. “Ah, there he is. Enjoy that little trip into your bloody mind palace, did you? What’re you thinking?”

With a huff, Sherlock replied, “Irrelevant. Send your friend back off on his merry way; he’s of no use to us. He can hardly see a foot before his eyes, you can tell from the state of his trousers.” He spun about to begin studying the bodies once more, vaguely hearing John apologize to the barkeep. By the time John’s attention had properly returned to Sherlock, Tom was back in his inn and Sherlock was spouting out a string of deductions. “This first one lived in the neighbourhood, single bedroom flat, modest for his otherwise impressive occupation of business owner. The woman and the other man were an item, friends of the first, all together for a small celebration between the three of them over the couple’s recent engagement. None of their personal items were removed from the bodies, unless our murderer has a doubtful inclination towards OCD tendencies and ensured the bodies were returned to their former state of dress before they were disposed of. If you ask Lestrade, you’ll discover this isn’t the case, as his imbecile people pawed at the bodies in search of their wallets, which are in custody. Though the term etched into their foreheads is one I’m not familiar with, it was certainly meant to insult, a warning to others of similar dispositions to beware.”

“No matter how many times I see it, it’s always brilliant,” John replied with a chuckle, instantly causing Sherlock to smile in reply.

“You flatter me as always, John. Now, what do you make of these burns?”

John let out a grunt as he lowered himself to his knees, jacket brushing Sherlock’s shoulder on the way down. The pair stared down at the bodies, John reapplying a pair of fresh gloves to turn one of the blank faces in their direction. It would have been unnoticeable to anyone other than Sherlock that John was forced to take a steadying, deep breath before looking down into the face of the victim. “Not quite deep enough to be third degree, but a few in spots might be close. They’re precise, probably done while they were passed out since there are few signs of any struggle on any of them. The burns aren’t the cause of death, though.”

Sherlock grunted his agreement, leaning forward until he was nose to nose with the dead man. His head cricked to the side, eyes squinting down at the etchings across his forehead. “Mudblood,” he murmured, climbing over the dead man in a shadow of a gangly curly haired black widow. “Mudblood. What does it mean? What makes you worthy of the insult?”

“Oye, Sherlock!” Lestrade called out from the sundrenched opening to the alley. “You get anything out of that barkeep? And finish up in there, my people need to do their jobs!”

Sighing, he rose to his feet and breezed down to Lestrade. “By all means, your people are welcome to resume desecrating the crime scene. I’ve gained everything I could for the time being. What are their names?”

“The woman was Jemma Albright, and the men were Andrew Saxby and Colin Moore. All between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty-two, locals of the area but originally from various towns about the country. Moore’s place is just around the corner a bit – we’re working on securing a warrant – and Albright and Saxby lived together not too far away. I’ve got people contacting friends and family to see what they might know.”

Sherlock nodded and headed for the street, arm poised to call a cab. “Let me know as soon as you have that warrant. I want to be there when you search the flat.” His eyes fell on John as the cab pulled up. “You aren’t coming.”

John jerked his head in the direction of the Leaky, stuffing his hands down deep into his trouser pockets. “Not now, no. I figure I ought to stop in for a bit, give Tom a proper hello since it’s been so long. I’ll be round later to see if I can help. I imagine you’ve mostly got a few hours of mind palace thinking on now anyway.”

Shooting him a distracted nod, Sherlock climbed into the cab only to immediately roll down his window. “By the way, John, don’t think this gets you off for your real reason at 221b. Particularly after this enlightening case of ours.” Before John could reply, the cab took off.

“What was that all about, then?” Lestrade asked from John’s shoulder. John breathed out a sigh, running his palm roughly down the side of his face.

“Long story. You set here?”

“Sure. I’ll let the two of you know as soon as we get anything more. Say hello to Mary and Cecy for me, will you? I keep meaning to stop by and haven’t been able to find the bloody time.”

With a nod and a wave, John turned about and reentered the Leaky Cauldron, a mixed feeling of anxiety and fear running through him as he faced back into his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the Corner Tom mentions is Michael Corner. The little asshole.


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally gets the chance to call on Minerva McGonagall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, everyone. Sorry this has been such a long time coming - first I was out for a few days with a nasty stomach bug, then Christmas while working in retail happened, so it's been a mad few weeks. Hopefully things will start to calm down and I can update properly. Anyway, I don't mind telling you that I'm not a super big fan of this chapter. Usually I edit each chapter threeish times, once while I'm transferring it from hand written to typed and at least two times in more detail. I think I went through this specific chapter a good five or six times, including sending it to a friend. I'm pretty sure that I've done what I can with it, so let me know what you think.

John always kept a spare stash of Floo Powder buried away in a small metal box at the back of a closet, mostly in case of emergencies rather than any expectation that he might actually want to use it. Mary had gone out for a few drinks with friends at John’s insistence twenty minutes earlier, finally leaving him and Cecelia alone for at least a few hours. Normally John would have waited until she fell asleep before even thinking of performing any sort of magic in the flat, but Cecelia was fussy and he had no clue as to when Mary might exactly return. He needed to contact McGonagall as soon as possible, and he was better off getting the call done with now than try and test fate.

John built up the fire a bit, thankful that he had thought to connect it to the Floo network when they moved into the flat, and brought Cecelia with him as he sat cross-legged before the flames. She rested propped up in her portable seat, close by so that John could reach her if necessary but far enough away that she wasn’t too close to the fire. He carefully pried the lid off the box, wincing at the screech the rusted metal let off as it was released, and stared down at the bright green powder. He ran a single finger through it, reminding himself of the sandy grains’ texture, before shaking off his sentimental silliness and snatching up a handful. He shot a glance at Cecelia to ensure that she was settled and safe before tossing the powder into the flames, eyes lighting up briefly as he watched them change from orange to green.

Taking a deep gulp, John sent Cecelia a last reassuring smile and shoved his head into the flames, giving a shout of, “Minerva McGonagall’s office!” before holding his breath. The sensation of communicating via Floo Powder had always been an uncomfortable adventure for him; given the option, he preferred nearly every other wizarding method of contacting someone. He didn’t have access to an owl, however, and he knew his best chance of contacting her quickly was by owl or this, leaving him with little choice. His eyes clenched shut tighter as he felt the sensation of his head transporting while his body remained still. Eventually the feeling stilled enough for him to peek through his lids slightly. The immaculate floor of the Hogwarts headmistress’ office swam into view, the legs of McGonagall’s desk just barely in sight. John blinked the green flames out of his eyes and called out, “Professor?”

Footsteps carried across the stone room and a chair scraped across the stones. At the same level as his eyes, the view of shifting robes and simple black shoes settled and McGonagall’s stoic face peered down at him. Despite his discomfort and unease, John couldn’t help but grin up at her. He hadn’t been the best at Transfiguration back at school, but he found the subject fascinating and worked at it diligently until he gained the required proficiency. Though not typically one to be overly blunt in her praise, John sensed her pride and pleasure at his work throughout his years.

“John Watson,” she greeted, the suggestion of a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. “You’re looking well.”

“Professor,” John nodded back, smile still plastered to his face. “You are as well. I admit I’m a bit surprised to see you still at Hogwarts.”

“Yes, well, things became shockingly more calm ever since Potter and his friends led the way in disposing of Lord Voldemort.” Her casual tilt of the head as she spoke caused John to chuckle. “Are you free for a brief chat? I’m available to have you pass through here or, if you give me a moment to call someone, I might come to you.”

“It’d be best if you came here, actually. Besides, there’s someone you might be interested in meeting.”

Rising to her feet, she replied, “Very well. I’ll call Longbottom up from his post and be with you momentarily.” As she left the office, John pulled himself back through the fire, blinking blue gaze instantly gravitating to where he left Cecelia. She sat peacefully in the same spot, her head cricked to the side as she watched him with a curious expression. He smiled and scooped her into his arms, listening to her babbling up at him as he set about in pulling out the things for tea and setting water in the kettle. He swayed on the floor of the kitchen, speaking quietly to her, when he heard the flames in the fireplace roar slightly and footsteps step into the living room.

“Make yourself comfortable,” John called out, finishing off the tea preparations and adjusting it all on a tray to carry out on a single arm. Before rejoining his former professor, he spared a glance down at the cooing round face in the crook of his arm. “Time to charm the robes off another family friend, my wee one. Be on your best behavior now, **Síleas**.” John pushed off the counter, tray carefully balanced on his hip, and caught another great smile crossing his face as he joined McGonagall.

“Your friend was correct, then,” she commented smoothly, a lilt of amusement in her voice. “You’ve done well for yourself, Dr. Watson. Who is this, then?”

“Minerva McGonagall, allow me to introduce Cecelia Gabrielle Watson. Cecy, say hello to your da’s old professor.”

Cecelia simply blinked at her in slight confusion, taking in the woman in strange clothes in their home. McGonagall leaned towards her, causing Cecelia’s eyes to widen and a chubby fist to reach out towards her. With a soft smile, McGonagall offered her hand and Cecelia’s curiosity beat out her uncertainty as they met in the middle. Automatically, Cecelia’s smooth fingers grasped one wrinkled one of McGonagall’s, fighting to bring it closer and examine it properly.

“She’s a thoughtful little lass already,” McGonagall commented in a low voice, studying Cecelia as Cecelia studied her. “She takes after that friend of yours in that regard.”

John chuckled and set the tea tray aside. “Oh, I know. You’d think she was Sherlock’s, the way she acts sometimes. At least we know what we’re getting into, given how long Sherlock and I have been friends.”

“Sherlock Holmes is a rather…unusual man, from the little I met of him.” Cecelia released her grip, allowing McGonagall to return to her seat. “He seemed to take quite a bit of pleasure from his attempts to deduce me.”

John groaned and chose a spot across from his professor, easing the dull ache in his bad shoulder by shifting Cecelia to the opposite arm. “I’m so sorry, Professor. God, if I’d have known you were looking for me, I could have saved you the trouble. Did he bother you terribly?”

“Not at all. I found him a rather interesting young man, I admit. Does he happen to know what you are, if you don’t mind my asking?”

With an awkward shift in his seat, John grimaced. “Well, er, no, actually, he doesn’t. I was in a bit of a bad spot when I met Sherlock, and had basically decided I was done with magic. The topic hasn’t had a reason to come up until recently.”

“Hopefully I haven’t made matters problematic between the two of you. That certainly was not my intention by paying you that call. It would seem that the two of you get on quite extraordinarily, from what I have read of your many misadventures together.”

He was able to keep the threat of a blush down to nothing more than a slight pink twinge high on his cheeks, but John felt certain McGonagall noticed it regardless. “Oh no, no need to apologize,” he continued quickly. “I’m sure he would have figured it out eventually – honestly, I’m surprised it took this long. Actually, it was more something that happened today…I take it you know I help him consult on criminal cases?”

“Of course. You may have returned to the Muggle world, John, but that certainly doesn’t mean I haven’t kept track of you, though I may have had to call in a few favours from Mr. Potter and Miss Granger for help in perusing this Internet Muggles seem so fond of. From what I’ve gathered, you’ve been fairly successful since returning to London, despite the various hardships you’ve undergone. But what happened today?”

John explained the crime scene from that afternoon in a clinical tone, attempting to cover his feelings over their discoveries with his straightforward analysis of the facts. McGonagall listened without interruption, expression thoughtful. Despite his best attempts otherwise, John felt his throat catch as he described the word etched into the victims’ foreheads, causing a concerned furrow to develop between Cecelia’s dusting of brown eyebrows. She cooed up at him in worry, fingers grasping out at him in a bid for comfort. John shot her a tentative grin and moved a hand to pass through her soft hair, bringing comfort to both and allowing him to continue. The only sign he had that McGonagall was even listening came when he mentioned Sherlock following John into the Leaky Cauldron.

“That is, to put it simply, utterly impossible,” she stated with a jerking shake of her head. “A Muggle would be unable to even see the Leaky, let alone enter it properly unescorted. He ought to have only had the view of an empty abandoned building, even if he entered it with your encouragement. The Muggle Repelling Charms simply wouldn’t allow such a thing.”

“That’s what I thought,” John replied with enthusiasm. “Honestly, it’s a miracle the place was that empty at that time of day so he didn’t see anything off. Besides, he was on a case, so most of his focus was on that. But what could have let him get in, then? Could the charms be wearing off?”

“It’s certainly possible, though I doubt it. Tom himself checks the charms daily, I know for a fact, but obviously he is getting on in years, not unlike myself, and his sharpness may be leaving him. I’ll pay him a call to see what he thinks before I return to Hogwarts as well as stop by to discuss the matter with Hannah Longbottom.”

“They were up, I could tell, but it’s been too long since I’ve dealt deeply with magic to tell how well off they were. Anyway, Tom didn’t notice anything off with the case, and I didn’t recognize them or their names. ‘Course, if they’re Muggleborns, their surnames wouldn’t pop out at me anyway.”

“You said Albright for the girl and Sacksby and Moore for the boys, I believe? There was a Sacksby in Ravenclaw a few years back, but I’m almost certain the student was an only child. Beyond that, the names don’t particularly stand out to me. If it was a direct attack on the siblings of Muggleborn students, it would make more sense, but why brand Muggles in such a way if they are innocent of connections to the wizarding world?”

John sighed and shook his head. “Not a damn clue, Professor, and as far as I know, the Muggle authorities are the only ones involved right now. After I spoke with you, I planned on trying Harry to let him know of the situation as well. He’ll most likely want to get some Aurors to investigate in case it is an attack on Muggleborns’ families.”

“An excellent suggestion. Coincidentally, this may have a connection to what I originally called you at Baker Street about. What did Mr. Holmes tell you of my visit?”

“We haven’t really had the time to discuss it, actually, what with me being away and the case popping up today. I believe it was just that you had come and he had questions, which is probably Sherlock speech for, ‘I’ve dug up everything I possibly can so you’re my next line of inquiry.’”

“Yes, he seems like that kind of sort,” McGonagall replied with a small snort. Almost instantly, however, she returned to her usual sober self, regarding John carefully from across the room. “I know the subject of your parents is a sensitive subject, John, and I’m loathe to bring back what’s best to be left in the past, but unfortunately I have little choice in the matter. My news is somewhat good, however – it would appear we have more concrete evidence on who was responsible for their deaths. From what you’ve just told me, it seems as though I came to inform you none too soon.”

John felt his hands begin to jerk in a stuttering resonance of memories best left behind, convincing him to return Cecelia to her cradle. He clasped them into tight fists a few times, carefully evening out his breathing. “What do we know?”

She reached into a pocket of her robes to draw out an envelope. John’s name was written across the front in a familiar, messy scrawl. He took it in slight unease, sliding a finger across the top to pull out jotted notes in the form of some sort of informal report. “I received this from Harry the day before I came to call on you via owl. The attack happened a month ago and had two victims, an aunt and cousin of a Gryffindor we had years ago. Harry recognized the method of killing used in the attack – Muggle victims, all with some sort of connection to the wizarding world through blood relatives, with burns along the entirety of the body that appear to be some altered form of Incendio, and Mudblood carved into the forehead. He wasn’t entirely certain how to contact you, which is why he came to me in the hopes that I might know more. Honestly, it’s been so long since the original attacks occurred, I think we all simply hoped that those responsible had been killed themselves.”

John hummed his agreement and scanned over the report, lowering it between limp hands once finished. “They believe one of them is a metamorphmagus?”

“Various Aurors who caught the individuals in the act said one of the wizards changed his or her appearance half a dozen times before escaping. They dropped their wand at the scene, so it was nearly impossible for them to transfigure themselves, particularly in such rapid succession. Harry suspects the sudden arrival of the authorities resulted in the wizard panicking and briefly losing control of their skill.”

“Just like Teddy when he’s caught up in a bad spot,” John agreed. He tucked the thought of his young friend away for the moment to be considered later. “So there was no way to tell who any of these people were.”

“Not from appearance, at least. Ollivander’s nephew is working on the wand, attempting to determine where and by whom it was produced, but we do know for certain that it was not one of their pieces.”

“So we’ve got at least one Death Eater loose again in London taking down Muggles like they did almost twenty years before.” John sighed, rubbing roughly at his face. “Bloody brilliant.”

“I received another owl from Harry today with information on the wand – aspen wood, eight and a half inches long, with a unicorn tail hair core. An unusual combination, given the aspen’s nature, but the addition of the unicorn hair has left the Aurors almost unable to use it due to its loyalty to its owner.”

“Right.” John slapped his hands on his thighs and scraped at them with his palms, blue eyes watching McGonagall with determination. “What would Harry like me to do? I won’t let these people do what’s been done to me, not if I can help it.”

“John, I don’t believe Harry intended for you to get involved directly. He knew you were back in the Muggle world and intended it as a warning, from what I understand. He doesn’t wish to bring you back into the wizarding world if it’s not what you want, nor does he wish to do you harm by bringing up old memories.”

“He can’t possibly expect me to just sit by while my parents’ murderers go offing more Muggles!” John replied with an incredulous laugh. “The man Harry knew may have been a hell of a lot younger, Professor, but in spirit he’s not much changed. I’m a soldier as much as he, if not more so, and inaction is not my usual method.”

“I’m well aware of your skills, as is Harry, but he knows you have a life outside of our world now, one with friends and a family. He simply doesn’t wish for you to become a victim to these individuals a second time if he can help it.”

“If he really wanted to help, he’d let me do something more than sit aside waiting!” John’s voice rose to an angry shout of its own accord, abruptly waking a sleeping Cecelia. Instantly she began to cry, and John’s rage dimmed as he picked her up to shush her, muttering quiet reassurances into her ear. His forehead met hers in a sigh that was barely more than a breath. “I’m sorry, Professor. It’s been a rougher week than expected, as pathetic of an excuse as that is.”

John felt the concern etched in the set of McGonagall’s body as she watched the pair of them across the room. “It is completely expected and more than understandable. I do not believe Harry doubts your skill here, John, but you must remember what it is you are protecting. You have gone through the feeling of loss a thousand times over; those who consider you to be a friend would like to help you avoid more.”

John nodded his forehead against Cecelia’s, causing her to giggle as his blonde-gray hair brushed over her skin. “I know, really. I’ve just never been much for helping myself when there are others who need it more.”

McGonagall hummed her agreement. “A true member of your house, as you’ve always been.” She rose to her feet, wrinkled hand smoothing over her robes. “I’d best return. Should I contact Mr. Potter or shall you?”

Lifting his head from Cecelia’s, John turned back to face McGonagall fully. “I’ll take care of it. He should know about our case anyway, particularly if only our authorities are involved.” He shifted Cecelia to one arm in order to extend his hand to McGonagall. “It’s been a pleasure to see you again, Professor, even with the topics we had to discuss.”

She took the offered hand and gave it a firm shake. “I’m glad to see you doing well for yourself finally, John Watson, despite everything. Please give Mr. Holmes my regards.” Her eyes lit once again with a tiny spark of mischief. “Do let him know I’m intrigued to hear what he’s found out about Floo Powder. I imagine his thoughts are delightfully imaginative.” With a nod in reply to John’s laugh, she left him and Cecelia alone with a sharp crack as she Apparated away.


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets involved in things he ought to have left well enough alone and...well...learns some...things. About a certain former army doctor turned blogger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT IS UP MY FRIENDS. Yeah, sorry, this took forever. I spent most of the last month working on my application for graduate school (!!!) but now that that has been sent off into the big bad world I can come back to this. And to make things even more exciting, Sherlock gets to find out some shit about John in this chapter. AKA yer a wizard, Johnny. And now I'm just mindlessly rambling because I'm tired so I'm just going to shut up and post the chapter, okay, okay.

“What do you mean **we’ve been taken off the case?** ”

Sherlock became his own personal volcano of fury in Lestrade’s office as the man dealing with the brunt of his fire sat awkwardly behind his desk, shifting in his seat in a mixture of discomfort and alarm. Lestrade scratched at his ear while Sherlock huffed in breaths through his nose, attempting to at least give the impression that he was calm.

“Look, Sherlock, I don’t know what to tell you,” Lestrade attempted to placate without an ounce of success. “They’ve taken us all off it, moved up to someone in a higher position. Don’t think I’m not just as upset at the lost opportunity.” Indeed, Lestrade looked more strained than usual, the dark circles below his eyes hollow grooves that sucked the color from his cheeks. From the tight set of his jaw, John could tell he was fuming at losing the case, though conveying his anger in less immature ways than Sherlock.

John remained silent through the entire exchange, lacking the heart to apologize despite the fact that they couldn’t know he was at least partially at fault for what was happening. After talking to McGonagall, John rang up the last phone number he had for the Potters, thankfully still the same. After catching up with him a bit, he told Harry everything that happened at the crime scene, including Sherlock being able to enter the Leaky Cauldron. Though Harry had no idea of how such a thing could have happened and encouraged John to ask Sherlock himself, he thanked him for the information and told him that his Aurors would pick up the case from the Muggle police. When John tried to ask if they’d learned anything more on the deaths McGonagall spoke of, Harry could only lament the lack of additional knowledge.

“It’s odd, John. I don’t like it.” Harry’s voice tinged with worry and John could tell he was shaking his head on the other end of the line. “Just watch out for yourself and those close to you, all right? I know they’ve targeted you before, and there’s no way to know if they’ll do it again.”

John came away from the conversation relieved that the Aurors were taking care of the matter but tense knowing that Sherlock would not take kindly to having such a fascinating case snatched right out of his grasp. He was proving John’s worries sound from the agitated way he paced about Lestrade’s office.

“What do you mean, moved it on to someone higher? You’re one of the only halfway decent DIs in this city, a fact they are more than aware of – there isn’t anyone bloody higher to pass it off to! How can they possibly dangle such a fascinating case **right before me** only to snatch it back before I’ve even had the chance to grasp at it?”

“I don’t fucking know, all right?” Lestrade’s voice rose to a shout just as he clambered to his feet, hands grasping heavily at his hips. He brushed a hand through his silver hair with a sigh. “Look, maybe someone wasn’t too keen on having you on the case. I know you’ve done your time and all that, but the fact is that you **did** murder someone. If you weren’t so bloody useful, the force probably would have made me kick you out on your arse years ago. You’re just going to have to let this one go, mate.”

Sherlock snorted, yanking out a chair to slouch low in the seat. “Let it go. How horridly quiet it must be for the rest of you if you can simply **let it go**. Even if I hadn’t been desperate for a case to begin with, I would have jumped at the chance to investigate this one.”

“Look, Sherlock, it’s done,” John finally said in a coaxing voice. “I’m sure something interesting will come along soon and you’ll have forgotten this one had even been taken away.”

Cocking his head to the side, Sherlock sent John a small grin as he steepled his fingers together. “Hmm, perhaps. Besides, I do have something to occupy my time until the right case comes up. I suppose I’ll simply have to devote all of my time to the matter of investigating the past life of one Dr. John Hamish Watson.”

“Oh God, what have I done?” John muttered to himself, stifling his comment with a groan. Sherlock launched to his feet with a wicked smile, causing John to shoot Lestrade a farewell as he jogged after.

~~~

He was still awake when Sherlock texted him the next evening, taking advantage of the relative peace after Mary put Cecelia to bed to catch upon his blog. Mostly it was going back to spruce things up, looking after long forgotten typos and responding to comments when his cell buzzed next to him, nearly slipping off the table from the force of the movement. He snatched it up just in time and couldn’t stop his grin when he saw it came from Sherlock. It was the first time he had messaged him in a while, and John would never admit aloud that he missed the familiar warmth that normally came from it happening often. Hoping it was something new and interesting to distract them both, he opened the message to read it.

**Uncovered something important and need to investigate. Come to Baker Street immediately. SH**

Frowning at Sherlock’s vagueness, John shut down his laptop and returned it to its usual spot at his side table. Mary was in the kitchen preparing Cecelia’s nightly bottles when he found her. “Sherlock’s got something on and needs my help – you two all set if I kip on over there for a bit?”

“Heaven forbid I attempt to keep you from the great Sherlock Holmes,” Mary replied with a chuckle as she rinsed her hands. She purposefully kept her head down, but even John could notice the twinge of sadness etched on the part her face he could see that accompanied her words. “Go on, off with you, then, and be careful. Give me a ring if you don’t think you’ll be back tonight.”

“Right.” John reached to pull on his jacket, digging about for his keys and following Mary’s lead to avoid eye contact. He tried to tell himself that the clenching he felt deep in his stomach was from guilt over leaving her on her own again rather than the exciting prospect of a late night stakeout with Sherlock. “Hopefully he’s just bored and wants something more to amuse him than talking to his skull. I expect I’ll be back soon.”

“Take your gun, just in case!” she called as he marched into his office and unlocked the top drawer of his desk. Inside sat his gun and a long, slender piece of wood, standing out mahogany against the darker grain of his desk’s surface. He shoved the gun down into its usual place but considered the wand, eyeing it somewhat doubtfully. It had been years since he properly used it, but he felt a strange itch in his hands to bring it along as well. With a shrug, he shoved it up the sleeve on his right arm, expertly strapping on a holster and securing the wand in place. He made sure there wasn’t an imprint of its shape before relocking the drawer and stepping back out.

“Already ahead of you,” John said to Mary, giving her a wave as he headed out the door. “Don’t wait up!” With that, he dashed out into the night, hailing down a cab and ordering him in crisp tones to Baker Street. There weren’t many cars out that night, making the trip a short and relatively uneventful one. He popped his head down the hall to send Mrs. Hudson a brief hello before heading upstairs, finding Sherlock seated in his armchair with his legs crossed and his hands steepled. His eyes shot open at John’s approach, his body replying by jumping up to yank on his coat.

“Excellent, John, just in time. Though I do wish you’d kept the cab, despite how dull the streets are tonight. We’ve no time to lose.”

Sherlock nearly flew down the stairs, he was so fast, darting out into the street before John could even close the upstairs door behind him. He nearly missed the cab Sherlock already summoned and could only let out a huff of agitation and subtle excitement as they took off. “So what is it, then? Found yourself another case?”

“You could say that. We’re meeting someone.” He refused to say anything more as they drove through the city, streetlights casting an odd, otherworldly glow over everything. Eventually the cab pulled up beside an unfamiliar park, hardly even lit along its edges let alone inside, and Sherlock tossed a few bills at the cabbie before climbing out. John followed, a sense of trepidation settling in his gut.

“Where are we?” he asked, glancing around for a street marker. None stood nearby, and the park itself appeared to have no obvious sign giving it a name. John stared into the bleak trees as his feeling of unease grew.

“It doesn’t matter – we need to get to the meeting spot before they do.” Without warning, Sherlock darted into the darkness, slipping through the trees with unnatural ease. John struggled to follow, his progress significantly less graceful, and muttered curses under his breath. Figuring that whoever they were meeting would hear his elephantine scrambling regardless, he pulled out his phone and chose a torch app Mary had added, bringing an abrupt and enormous brightness into the otherwise eerie blankness. Even with the light, however, he struggled to keep track of Sherlock, the man’s progress more feline than human in his ability to crawl through the trees almost silently. John was forced to assume he had been through here before.

“Who are we meeting? Sherlock! Slow down! Where in the bloody fuck are you taking me?”

“Hush, John. At this rate, half of London will know we’re here.” John could hear him somewhere to his left and headed off into that direction, intent upon catching him up until the sudden appearance of a curly head nearly scared him out of his pants. “Come along, we’re nearly there.”

They continued for another few minutes, Sherlock leading with John lighting the way. Eventually they trudged through a tiny clearing, hardly large enough to be considered more than a break in the trees. Sherlock’s head darted about like a dog on the hunt searching out his prey as he surveyed the area. He gave a decisive nod and dragged John back into the undergrowth, nearly tripping him as he pulled him down to kneel on the spongy grass below. John considered asking questions about what exactly they were getting into here, but a glance at the focused expression on Sherlock’s face told him the man was in his mind palace. He took the moment to watch him in the near darkness, only part of his face visible in the bits of starlight fighting their way through the branches. The lack of light only helped to accentuate the sharp dips and curves of his face, and the slight twitches across his skin as he thought danced in the beams. John noticed the signs of Sherlock returning to the present in enough time to school his expression into thoughtful consideration, so that when he turned to glance at John he was simply studying the clearing silently.

“Make sure you turn off your phone,” Sherlock mumbled in a low voice that caused John to jerk in surprise at the sudden noise. He frowned and raised an eyebrow.

“Why would I need to turn off my phone? Which isn’t going to happen, by the way, particularly since you won’t tell me what’s going to happen so I at least have some clue about what I’m getting into.”

Sherlock sighed deeply, the noise he let out as he did one of long suffering. “I haven’t told you because I know you wouldn’t approve and it’s easier than dealing with your monologue that basically amounts to ‘a bit not good.’ And at the very least, turn it on silent and put it in your jeans pocket so it can’t be seen or heard.”

John did as he was told with a roll of his eyes. Though it was doubtful Sherlock could have seen the action, John heard him let out a small chuckle. John shoved his shoulder gently into Sherlock’s, a playful motion they had become comfortable with since his return, and Sherlock reached out to give the arm a squeeze. John was just opening his mouth to make a comment when Sherlock squeezed again, his blunt fingernails digging somewhat painfully into John’s arm. Shooting his head up to look into the clearing, John saw three figures begin to gradually approach from three different directions.

From the shapes and sizes of their bodies, they all appeared to be male. One of them was slightly taller than the other two, and from the authoritative stance he took when he stopped, John guessed him to be the leader. They all wore dark clothing, covering almost all of their features, black hoods folded over their heads to block out their faces. The tall one’s hood jerked as he nodded to the other two and lowered himself to sit cross legged on the ground. The others followed his motions, sitting directly in front of John and Sherlock’s hiding spot and facing the first man.

“I haven’t seen anything about it in the papers,” the first man began, his voice quiet but carrying easily through the near silent dark. “Don’t tell me you’ve backed out on me, boys.”

“Oye, not a chance.” The second voice was definitely male, but higher pitched than the first. John guessed he couldn’t be more than his late teens. “We did a right fine job of it, didn’t we, Travers?”

The third man merely grunted in reply. The first leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, hood swishing back and forth as he regarded them. “Excellent. And you left them where they could be found?”

“Yep, right outside the Leaky and right in front of their bleeding noses.”

At the first mention of the Leaky Cauldron, John instantly understood. He reflexively reached for his weapon, but instead of his gun for once it was to the wand tucked up his sleeve. “Sherlock,” he hissed, hardly even moving his lips to speak. “This isn’t our case. We shouldn’t be here!”

“And let the murderers get away from right in front of us? Come now, John.” Sherlock’s voice left little room for argument, but it made John even more uneasy. His attention returned to the three men just as the second was finishing explaining where they dumped the bodies.

“Ha, clever of you, Smith, I’ll give you that. But something’s gone amiss; Holmes has got the Ministry involved.”

John had to hold in his gasp as his head darted around to Sherlock, who was nearly leaning forward into the bush in his intensity to hear more. The deep furrow between his eyebrows told John that the news was just as baffling to Sherlock as it was to John, but even so, he didn’t feel particularly reassured.

“But that’s impossible! I was there watching from across the street when they found ‘em, it was only the Met, I swear! I checked ‘em all before I swanned off, not a wizard in sight!”

John flinched when he said the word, all of the confirmation on the men’s identities solidified more than enough for him. He pulled at Sherlock’s collar to bring his ear close to John’s lips, allowing him to hardly even breathe to be heard. “Out. Now. The both of us. We’ve seen enough.” Sherlock pulled out of John’s hold and waved him away, eagerly moving forward to continue listening. As he did, a few curls snagged in the branch directly in front of his face, causing an echoing crack that sounded like a bomb in the near quiet. The three men in the clearing jumped to their feet in a rush, the unmistakable shape of wands pointing in their direction.

“All right, who’s in there?” the second man called with a sneer. “If you show yourself, maybe we’ll do you the courtesy of killing you before we mark you up.”

“Sherlock, **get down**.” John’s voice was deadly quiet and stern, having instantly reverted into the memory of being a captain at the threat. Sherlock flinched slightly at the sharpness but didn’t move. The tall man slowly inched forward, wand pointed directly at Sherlock, and squinted into the darkness.

“Lumos,” he muttered, and a soft glow shot out from the wand tip into the trees, cutting through the branches to illuminate John and Sherlock’s figures. Sherlock’s wide eyed and gaping expression of surprise might have been amusing to John if there wasn’t a possibly deadly wizard with his wand in Sherlock’s face. Just as the other two men raised their wands, John dove for Sherlock to push him completely to the ground, his body draped over Sherlock’s.

“I said fucking **get down**!” John shouted as sparks of varying colours lit up the clearing. He scrambled at his sleeve to wrench out his own wand, muttering a quick, “Protego Totalum!” as he swept his arm in an arcing circle around them. A brief silvery bubble hovered over them before the sounds of the spells abruptly hollowed. “Stay here,” John sternly said in Sherlock’s ear before jumping to his feet, flinging a spell at one of the men.

“Oye, he’s one of us!” the second man yelped as John’s spell grazed his arm. Body working automatically, John sent a constant volley of curses at the men, sending at least one sprawling to the ground before they could respond. He was briefly distracted by Sherlock rising shakily to his knees, breaking the already feeble protection spell around him.

The first man saw Sherlock’s movement and turned his wand on him. The shape of the words he was about to shout had barely even formed before John shot a shield charm at Sherlock followed directly by a stunner at the first man. He crumbled as it hit him in the chest and John watched as the last one, sensing his inevitable defeat, dashed out into the darkness. Sherlock, meanwhile, lay crumpled on the ground.

“ **Sherlock**!” John shouted, dashing forward and letting the shield fall to examine him. “Jesus, Sherlock, when I tell you to stay down, you fucking need to **stay down**!”

“John!” Sherlock gasped out his name, his eyes wide and blown. The sight instantly called back the Sherlock of Baskervilles to John’s mind, and frankly he couldn’t blame him for the terror. “What…that…John!”

“Right then, up we go,” John said, putting an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders to help him to his feet. He wobbled a bit but stood, body easily malleable to John’s will when he moved him to lean against a tree. Once he was certain that Sherlock could keep control over himself for the time being, he went to inspect the men on the ground. “What am I going to do with you, then?” he asked himself, staring down at the stunned pair of wizards. He glanced at Sherlock resting on his right, mouth gaping open and skin so pale that it nearly gave off its own light in the reflection of the moon. Sherlock shakily raised a hand and ran it through his curls.

“I hate to do this to you, John, and really, I consider myself a man of fairly strong fortitude in the face of a challenge, but to be perfectly honest, I’m feeling particularly light headed at the moment and I hope you’ll forgive me if I pass out in a moment. Right, sorry, **when** I pass out.” Having barely gotten his long winded warning out, he fell completely limp into John’s arms.

“ **Jesus** ,” John let out with a huff of breath as he attempted to catch him and lower him to the ground. “Can’t even bloody faint without a damn speech about it first.” He gave Sherlock a quick once over to make sure it was only shock that had knocked him out. Other than a few cuts from being shoved about in the dark by John and a light gash on his arm where the spell grazed him, he appeared to be fine. Nodding his satisfaction, John let him be for the moment and returned his attention to the pair of stunned men. Upon further inspection, it appeared that he had hit the leader and the younger man, letting the final male who never spoke escape. Given the number of years it had been since he used his wand, let alone duel, it could have been worse. He pulled out his phone and dialed Harry’s number, shooting some ropes from the tip of his wand to bind his suspects at their wrists as it rang. Luckily he’d added Harry’s number to his cell permanently, and he answered barely after the third ring.

“John? Is everything all right?”

“Erm, relatively speaking. You’ll have to send out some Aurors for me, though, Harry. It appears I’ve got us some suspects.”


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having successfully gotten Sherlock back to Baker Street, he now has to face the consequences of his actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for some John back story! This chapter is extra long and I tried to avoid spending too much time discussing anything Potter related that didn't directly deal with John, since I'm assuming that if you're reading this you know all that jazz. :) Also, when I first started out writing this, the back story with Sherlock and magic was not something I had ever considered and...well. It escalated quickly. Thanks to everyone for your amazing responses and let me know what you think!
> 
> Update, June 14, 2015 - Guysssss I commissioned the lovely Kelley (anotherwellkeptsecret on Tumblr) to make fanart from a scene from this chapter and it is done and gorgeous! You can find the official image on her page [here](http://anotherwellkeptsecret.tumblr.com/post/124038351044/greyscale-lineart-commission-for#).

“Rennervate.”

Sherlock slowly felt himself returning to consciousness, a bit fuzzy and uncertain of where he was and how he got there. After a few moments, he blinked his eyes open to meet John’s, concern etched across his expression. From the angle where he lay, it appeared that he was spread out on the couch, though the last thing he remembered was being out in the park. With John. And the suspects. Shooting dazzling sparks of light at each other. With…sticks of wood?

“John,” Sherlock breathed before his face screwed up in confusion. “What the hell was that?”

“Good morning to you too, then,” John replied with a sigh, lowering himself to sit on the edge of the coffee table with a soft moan. “I take it you remember?”

“It’s morning?!” Sherlock yelped and straightened far too quickly, causing the room to spin. John’s hand shot out to firmly grasp his arm, steadying him and forcing his back against the armrest.

“Jesus, it was a figure of speech. It’s only ten, relax, I’ve just come back from helping Harry take care of things.”

“What on earth does your sister have to do with any of this? And what happened to the suspects? We need to contact Lestrade immediately!”

“Would you just bloody relax for half a second and let me explain?” John snapped with a chuckle and a grin. Sherlock sent him a scathing glare but remained quiet. “First off, no, not Harry my sister, Harry my friend. This one’s actually a bloke and he’s in charge of the Aurors, a sort of a wizard police force. They have the two men I stunned in custody, but we weren’t able to catch the one who ran – probably Apparated the second he had the chance, he could be anywhere by now. And we will not be informing Lestrade because a) this isn’t his case and b) I really don’t feel like explaining everything to him as well as to you, at least not right now. You’ll make it difficult enough on your own, thanks very much.”

Throughout John’s explanation, Sherlock’s mouth gradually gaped open more and more in what would have been a comical manner if matters hadn’t been so serious. Once John was finished, Sherlock blinked a few times in dazed confusion before clearing his throat. “I…did not understand some of those words, John; you may need to say that again.” John wished he’d had a recorder handy for Sherlock’s reply. He’d love nothing better than to toss out a reminder of the one time Sherlock admitted to not understand and encouraged repetition all in the same breath. Rather than asking him to say it again into his phone’s speaker, John chuckled and got to his feet.

“If we’re going to have this conversation now, I’m not doing it until I’ve properly checked that scratch of yours and made us an entire pot of tea. Stay there.”

He left behind his wand on the coffee table when he set off into the kitchen, partially to see what Sherlock would make of it and partially because he was no longer used to walking about with it strapped to his side. Sherlock cocked his head at the wand with mild curiosity, fingers twitching out at it on the couch cushion, encouraging him to reach out and grab it. Unfortunately, the same moment he raised a hand out to do so was the same moment John returned to the living room.

“Ah, no, sorry Sherlock, I’m afraid not,” John said smoothly, setting down the tea things and snatching the wand up. “At least not without a bit of background. Now give me your arm.”

Sherlock offered the arm without protest, his interest apparently strong enough that it beat out the willfulness of his nature. In an automatic move that came from having his wand in his hand, John summoned his medic bag with a casual flick, sorting through it for some supplies to clean the area before inspecting it. It was a bit deeper than it originally appeared, but wouldn’t have any lasting damages. John healed the outside with a quick, “Episky,” that nearly caused Sherlock to launch off the couch in alarm.

“Shit, sorry, I forgot!” John grabbed Sherlock just before he headed for the floor, rubbing comforting circles into the side of his neck. “It’s just a minor healing charm, Sherlock, relax. It’s supposed to feel like that; it means the magic’s working.”

Sherlock jerked his head in an awkward sign of understanding as he shook under John’s touch. Gradually the burning sensation edged into near freezing before tapering off completely. John waited until the shaking subsided before releasing Sherlock’s neck, his cheeks tinting a soft pink at the intimacy of its placement.

“You did better than Harry did the first time I tried to heal her,” John stated with a small smile as he gently wrapped a bandage around Sherlock’s arm. “It was during Christmas break my fifth year of school; I remember because I’d just started studying with Madame Pomfrey the month before. I thought she’d blow my eardrums out with how loud she screamed, and she refused to speak to me for at least a week. Kind of nice, actually.” He chuckled and ducked his head to catch Sherlock’s lowered eyes. “How’s that? Feel a bit better?” All Sherlock could do was nod.

John set about preparing them both cups of tea, making sure Sherlock actually took a sip of his before setting about building up a fire. By the time he finished, Sherlock was looking significantly less terrified, though he had brought his knees up to his chest to rest his teacup on them. John sat back down beside him on the couch and took a few sips of his own tea before finally asking, “Right. Better?”

Sherlock’s nod this time was much more confident. “Yes. “But John…what exactly are you?”

“A wizard,” John replied without preamble. “Technically a Muggleborn wizard, but still. Wizard all the same.”

“A wizard.” Sherlock could practically feel Sherlock’s doubt fluttering in the air between them. “As in magic and fairy tales. That’s not possible, John.”

“What’s that phrase you always use? Something about eliminating the impossible and what’s left is the truth? Care to test out that theory here?”

Sherlock frowned thoughtfully, but nodded his head in agreement. “You make a fair point, besides the fact that I’ve seen it. But it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been fooled into believing something spectacular that I couldn’t explain on first sight. What’s to say I haven’t been drugged and am imagining all of this?”

“I suppose that’s just something you’ll have to wait and see on,” John relented. He took a thoughtful sip of his tea, free arm slung over the back of the couch just barely out of reach of the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “Does it feel the same as Baskervilles? Or, you know…before.”

“Not at all, which is what makes it feel so peculiar.” Sherlock’s head zipped around to stare over at John so fast that a curl at the base of his scull just brushed along John’s finger. “I’ve been drugged countless times, by countless means and substances, but beyond your claims, this is the least impressive feeling of being drugged I’ve ever experienced, if I am in fact drugged. It’s a rather dull sensation, if truth be told.”

John chuckled. “Sorry you’re so disappointed in your potential drugging. I’m surprised you’re latching on to that theory rather than asking me more questions though.”

“I’m getting to that. Even if I am drugged, this is all rather much to take in.” Sherlock returned his attention to John’s wand, which he had placed on the couch between them. It was a fairly common looking wood, smooth until the last few inches where a crisscrossing design had been etched into it, and was as well taken care of as John’s gun. Sherlock shifted just enough so that he could look directly over at John through his fringe, their eyes instantly meeting and holding. “What’s it made of?”

“Cedar. It’s nine and a quarter inches, with a phoenix feather for a core. Mr. Ollivander enjoyed pointing out the fact that it was an interesting sign that such a common wood held such an unusual core. Always thought he was a bit daft.”

“It suits you – unassuming front holding a titan inside.” Sherlock craned his head about to study the wand from a different angle, careful to avoid touching it. “I take it Ollivander is a wandmaker.”

“Best in the UK. Nearly everyone at Hogwarts got their wands from him.”

At the mention of Hogwarts, Sherlock’s head shot back up once more. “Hogwarts is a school, then. I’d gathered as much from that McGonagall woman. It’s the wizarding school you attended.”

Though it wasn’t actually a question, John answered it anyway. “Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, yes. It’s the only wizard school actually on the British Isles – there are a few more on the continent, obviously – but it’s considered the best. I went there for seven years.”

Sherlock’s face screwed up in thought. “Seven, stereotypical number associated with magic. Bit of an odd number for years for schooling…you’re considered an adult at age seventeen?”

“Right on. Students usually got their letters of acceptance around eleven and would finish up at around seventeen, just in time to get their Apparation license.”

“What were you required to do to gain admittance?”

John shifted slightly in his seat, pulling his leg up to rest across his knee while he considered. “You didn’t really have to **do** anything. Magic’s something you’re born with, and the Ministry knows if you’re a wizard whether you’ve got a background in it or not. They send out the letters to anyone with the proper skill, regardless of whether the kids know it or not. Otherwise you’d never have any Muggleborns.”

“Muggle.” Sherlock tested the word on his tongue, grimacing slightly at the sound of it. “Those without magical skill, from what I understand. Muggleborn wizards come from a pair of Muggle parents.”

“Exactly. Typically there is some magic back in the Muggleborns’ lineage; Mum and I checked it out before she died and apparently we’ve got some great uncle twice removed or some such rubbish that was a wizard and it somehow managed to pass on to me. I’m the only living Watson who’s a wizard, though, and the only one on either side of the known family to be one.”

Sherlock’s voice was almost too low to be heard. “I cannot imagine Harry’s thrilled about that.”

John sighed and finished off his tea, settling the cup on the table with a dull thunk. “That’s one way to put it. Let’s just say she and I have never really got on since I got my letter. She’s had a rough time of it.”

“You blame yourself for her alcoholism, since she didn’t begin drinking until after you started school. You’re so adamant to help her overcome it because, according to your logic, you were the one to cause it.” Sherlock’s eyes were sharp with veiled concern when they met John’s. “It wasn’t your fault, John. You cannot be blamed for being born what you are.”

“Yeah, I know, really,” John sighed. “Can’t blame a bloke for trying, though.”

They both fell silent, each ruminating on his own thoughts. The only sounds in the flat came from the fire and faint noises of Mrs. Hudson moving in her flat below. Sherlock drummed his fingers on his knees thoughtfully, curving mouth pinched into a frown. “There’s still something I don’t understand. Why are you here? Why would you be sitting on the couch of 221b if you’re a wizard?”

John stared into the fire, refusing to look at Sherlock as he spoke in case he decided to read more into him than he was prepared for. “There was a wizard, years ago, that decided to try to take power over the wizarding world. Tom Riddle, more commonly known as Lord Voldemort. He was supposedly defeated once, back before I’d ever gotten into everything, by a man named Harry Potter. Well, I say man – at the time, Harry was only a one-year-old baby.” John paused to crick his head thoughtfully, a furrow growing between his eyebrows. “Haven’t really thought much into what that must have been like. I never met Lily and James, Harry’s parents, but I know plenty of people who were close to them. It’s strange to think of someone not much older than Cecelia managing to destroy the greatest dark wizard of our time.” John shook himself from his brief reverie to continue. “Anyway, that was that, as far as anyone could tell, and a few years later I was at Hogwarts. I decided to train as a Healer, their version of a doctor, and was considering how to train as a Muggle doctor as well when he came back.”

When John didn’t continue, Sherlock shifted towards him slightly in a sign of encouragement. “But…you can’t come back from the dead, at least not literally. Not even Moriarty was able to, although he did his best to make it seem that he had. You can’t possibly have that kind of power.”

“Apparently you can, though the work and sacrifices involved means that very few wizards have tried and succeeded.” John rubbed a hand across his face as though he were scrubbing away the memories. “I don’t know how it’s done or care to know, but Voldemort managed it, back when Harry was in his fourth year. Dumbledore, the head of Hogwarts at the time, worked at building up the resistance to try and fight him off again. I was offered a place in the Order of the Phoenix, their group, but I didn’t actually join until after my parents died.”

Sherlock reached out in a quick movement to squeeze John’s knee. Before he could move it, John snatched it up in a near crushing grip. “You don’t have to share if you don’t want to, John. I didn’t intend to upset you.”

“I want to.” John stubbornly lifted his head to meet Sherlock’s eyes, allowing him to see the pain etched into his expression. “I’ve wanted to tell you for a while now, pretty much since you came back. I…need to share this part of me with you.” Sherlock returned the squeeze John gave his hand but didn’t release it. John took it as a sign to continue. “Harry was out at the time, thank God, and I was the one who found them. They’d been discovered by some Death Eaters, Voldemort’s followers. They tortured them, killed them, and etched the word Mudblood into their foreheads. Mudblood is an insult used by idiots and pureblood fanatics to offend Muggleborns.” John swallowed thickly to stop the quivering in his voice. “It was one of their methods for threatening Muggleborns, killing their families and leaving that behind. I suppose they meant it to cow us, drive us into hiding or something like that, but it didn’t work with me. I joined the Order the next day.”

John shifted in his seat to hide the sniff he made to fight down his tears, clearing his throat as he moved to sit directly beside Sherlock. Their linked hands sat in the small space between them beside John’s wand. “To cut an already long story short, a few years after that there was a battle. Harry destroyed Voldemort completely and we retook the Ministry of Magic to rebuild it. After the job was done, I decided to join the Muggle army in order to get the proper training to become a doctor.”

“Two wars,” Sherlock mumbled, and John could feel him shaking through their linked hands. “My God, John, no wonder you were such a mess when we met.”

John let out a watery chuckle and nodded. “Yeah, I was in a bad spot back then, what with the friends I’d lost, both wizard and Muggle. The curse in my leg and shot in my shoulder didn’t help.”

Sherlock jerked away, but John was reassured that it was only so he could gape directly at him. “Curse in your leg?”

“Not so psychosomatic, is it?” John replied with a slight grin. “It was from a shot during the Battle at Hogwarts. I got caught between a few Death Eaters and got hit on the shin from a stray curse. I only had the time to do a quick Healing of it at the time and it tends to act up when I’m stressed.”

“But I’ve seen your leg…there’s nothing, no sigh of a wound – “

“Curses don’t always leave physical marks.”

Sherlock nodded and fell silent, staring across the room into the fire. John absentmindedly stroked a thumb across the back of Sherlock’s hand, an unconscious movement to reassure the both of them. Eventually Sherlock let out a breath, part sigh and part grunt, and shook his head. “I still don’t understand. After your shoulder injury and you were invalid back to London, you had no reason to cease using magic. Given your relationship with your sister, the most logical step would have been to reenter the wizarding world, particularly if this Voldemort fellow was gone for good.”

John took a long moment to consider before he replied. “It was less difficult, coming back to the Muggle world rather than the wizarding one. I felt useless after I got shot – I knew it was too late after my injury to do anything magically to fix my shoulder and obviously the army didn’t have Healers on hand to mend it when it happened. It was my dominant arm, both for practicing surgery and magic, so I felt like I had little purpose left in either world. And to be perfectly honest, it had been so long since I’d done any magic at that point…I wasn’t even sure if I could anymore. What you saw earlier was the first time I’ve done magic since I joined the army.”

Sherlock’s fingers danced in John’s grip, a waltz of reassuring touches. “Why now, of all times? You’ve had more than your average number of chances to use your magic again – “

“Because the last time I just sat by and let nature take its course, you died.”

John felt Sherlock stiffen from the tension in the small space between their palms. “You would have stopped my fall, given the opportunity.”

“Of course I would have – probably would have gotten in heaps of trouble for it with the Ministry, both for performing magic unasked on a Muggle and out in the open like that – but I would have done it anyway just to save you. But I wasn’t carrying my wand with me back then…tonight was the first time I had in years.”

“I…don’t know what to say.” Sherlock cleared his throat and refused to meet John’s eyes. “Thank you, John. It would have ruined everything, but thank you for the thought.”

“Any time,” John laughed with a squeeze of Sherlock’s hand. “It would have been worth the trouble to save you.”

Abruptly, Sherlock snatched his hand away and shifted to fully face John, the excitement of a newly discovered experiment lighting up his face. “Would you show me more, John? More of what you can do?”

John sent him a half grin as he rose to his feet and snatched up his wand. “I suppose it doesn’t matter much now that you know. What would you like to see?”

“Anything,” Sherlock breathed. “Everything.”

John’s smile widened, pausing for half a second to consider. He turned to face the skull on its usual place on the mantle and, with the practiced ease of a man in his element, gave an arched swish and flick with a muttered, “Wingardium Leviosa.” Instantly the skull shot into the air and floated to come and rest on Sherlock’s lap at John’s guiding. The childlike wonder that spread across Sherlock face caused a flood of warmth to spread through John.

“Astounding,” Sherlock muttered, turning the skull in a careful grip to study it. “And no lingering side effects from the spell left over once it is complete. More!”

John chuckled and went through a series of basic spells, shooting water across the sitting room in an arch, causing Sherlock’s laptop to disappear and reappear, and forcing the tea kettle to scrub itself clean. Each new spell caused a new wave of curiosity and delight in Sherlock, increasing John’s enjoyment as well. John was surprised with the ease he felt in going through the once frequent motions, his wand familiar and comfortable in his grasp. On a whim, he said, “Orchideous Osiria!” and his grin broke out in a full smile as a bouquet of the duo-coloured roses grew from his wand’s tip. He set aside his wand briefly to search out a vase, returning to the sitting room to arrange the roses on the mantle.

“You’ve always been more inclined toward that particular flower,” Sherlock noted as he came forward to stand at John’s side and stroke one of the petals.

“My mum’s favourite. There’s a forest right next to Hogwarts and these are the only Muggle developed plant to thrive on their own in there. They don’t have a particular purpose in any spells, but I always saw Sprout giving them a particular spot of attention when she saw a bush of them. Even if they’re not useful, they’re fine to look at, and always remind me of my two homes, in the Muggle world as well as the wizarding one.”

Sherlock gave a nod of agreement and eyed the wand now resting on the mantle. “I understand if you’re not allowed, John, but if possible, could I…?”

“I was wondering when you’d ask, you git.” John smirked at him as he picked the wand up and shoved it into Sherlock’s hand. “Go on, then. Can’t cause much harm if you haven’t got the skill.”

Sherlock raised the wand to eye level, balancing it on poised fingertips. He shifted it back and forth in his grasp, feeling along the wood’s veins with gentle fingers and eying it from handle to tip. He spent a particularly long time studying the etchings on the base, following the outlines as they melded into smoothness to form the rest of his wand. Eventually he copied the way John held it, his grip loose but graceful as he gave it a slight swish. He jolted away as a few purple sparks erupted from the end, gaping as the wand clattered to the floor.

“That…wasn’t supposed to happen.” John blinked slowly up at Sherlock, whose round eyes were locked on him. He reached down and snatched the wand up to hold it out to Sherlock, who cowered ever so slightly away. “Go on, then, take it. I want you to try something.”

Sherlock’s gaze darted in uncertainty from the wand to John’s face, eventually reaching out a hesitant hand to take it. John’s eyes locked on the wand as he came to stand close beside Sherlock. “Hold it steady, no need for a motion on this one, and say Lumos.”

Sherlock took in a shaking breath and said a small, “Lumos.” The tip of the wand sputtered a bit in reply, but did nothing.

“Again, stronger. Say it like you mean it.”

[Letting out a huff, Sherlock steadied his grip and growled, "Lumos!"](http://anotherwellkeptsecret.tumblr.com/post/124038351044/greyscale-lineart-commission-for#) A shot of light lit up the sitting room, weaker than if John had done the same and flickering slightly but undeniably there. Sherlock’s focus was locked on the ray of light, but John chose to watch Sherlock. His face was a mixture of confusion and amazement, the excitement of a young child radiating off of him in waves. The expression made him look years younger, smoothing out the lines that had begun to form along his eyes and forehead and enhancing his natural beauty. John caught the line of thought his mind was wandering down and shook it off quickly. His focus returned to his wand in Sherlock’s hand. 

“The counterspell is Nox. Give it a try.”

Sherlock jerked a nod and narrowed his eyes in concentration. “Nox!” The light shuttered off like a torch with a dying battery. Sherlock let out the breath he’d been holding and lowered his arm to send an incredulous expression John’s way. “John, that was…God, that was fascinating. How did you do that? It felt as though I were doing it myself!”

John’s eyebrows rose at the same time his mouth fell open. “I…didn’t do anything, Sherlock, just gave you the words. I’m not good enough to do wandless magic, particularly with how long it’s been. That was all you.”

“That can’t be possible.” Sherlock’s forehead knit in thought. “I never received a letter to Hogwarts. Before today, I never would have believed any of this possible and even now only accept it with proof.”

“Didn’t that one bloke out in the woods say something about a Holmes getting involved in the case? Maybe it’s something you need to bring up with Mycroft. He’s only, what, a few years older than me, yeah? And you said he went off to boarding school as a kid…”

“That can’t be right,” Sherlock mumbled, more to himself than John. He narrowed his eyes down at John’s wand, still clasped in a loose grip in his right hand. “Mycroft couldn’t be a wizard; I would have figured it out years ago when he came home from holidays. He must be involved somehow…” His voice trailed off as he swayed slightly, hand rising to rub at his head.

John shot out to him almost instantly, snatching at the wand and Sherlock’s elbow to steady him. “Whoa there, Sherlock. Look, maybe you should head to bed. You’ve had a shock, and that Healing spell most likely took a bit out of you.”

“No! I mean…” Sherlock’s frantic response gave him away, both in regard to how tired he’d become to slip up and how worried he was about what he’d learned. John caught on instantly and sent him a reassuring smile.

“I’ll still be here in the morning, Sherlock, I promise. We can talk more then, after we’ve both rested up a bit.”

“That’s…not actually what I was concerned about.” Sherlock’s voice was small and fragile, a frightened little boy inside an arrestingly impressive man.

“It’s real, Sherlock, trust me. Kipping down for the night won’t change any of this or take back me telling you.”

“I can’t possibly know that,” Sherlock protested, his fear beginning to evolve into a tantrum. “For all I know, this has been a thoroughly elaborate dream brought on by excessive time spent investigating your past and an overzealous imagination.”

“The fact that you can still spew that shit at two a.m. after what we’ve been through tonight…” John’s sigh evolved into a chuckle and he started pushing Sherlock towards his bedroom. “Right then, come on, off with you. No way to know if it was dream until you go to bed and nothing you can do about it if it is.” Sherlock fell over his book strewn bed and awkwardly climbed under the covers. John was just about to leave when Sherlock’s hand shot out to stop him.

“You’re staying?” John could almost see a younger version of Sherlock in the man’s current position, possibly seeking out reassurance after a nightmare. He couldn’t help himself from reaching out a hand to run lightly through his curls.

“I have to stop home to pick up some things and check up on Mary and Cecelia, but I’ll be back, I promise. We’ll talk more when you wake. Now sleep.”

John could tell he still wasn’t certain, but he gave a brief nod and shut his eyes. John couldn’t help his grin as he carefully closed the door behind him and headed out to get what he needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent a lot of time trying to figure out the right kind of wand for John. I used the excellent explanations given from Pottermore to finally settle on cedar - I encourage you to check it out on the Harry Potter wiki page and let me know if you agree!


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon accepting that John is, in fact, a wizard, Sherlock throws himself into investigating the Watsons' deaths. In doing so, he meets a young friend of John's and begins to learn more about the wizarding world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is up my friends. Here cometh another chapter. This is the beginning of the hella long chapters, so there's that to look forward to. Also, Sherlock finally interacting with Cecelia. Oooh, and John's house is revealed! I've seen quite a bit of debate over which house both John and Sherlock would be in, and after much consideration (as well as taking a complete sorting quiz under my characterization of each to see the results), you'll get to see how I feel on the matter. Sorry that this chapter is basically a lot of people moving around talking about shit; there's more action next chapter, I promise. Sherlock's still trying to understand stuff at the moment, so there's quite a bit of discussion going down. Additionally, I would apologize for the cliffhanger, but with me it was inevitable. The good news is that I still have a few days before I'm possibly allowed to go back to work and I already have the next chapter typed, so ideally you won't have to wait too long. Let me know what you think!

When Sherlock blinked his eyes blearily open, it was to a wispy sounding flash of something darting over his head. He shot upward only to have the object collide with his cheek and fall with a clatter into his lap. It gave a feeble jerk before unfolding from its shape, which with some consideration appeared to be a child’s paper aeroplane. Written on the slightly crinkled sheet was a message from John.

**Sherlock, just in case you wake up before I’m back, I figured I’d leave you this. Hopefully it will do the trick to help you believe this all actually happened. Come on out to the living room when you’re up – I’ve got some things to show you. John**

He clamored out of bed like a child at Christmas, yanking his dressing gown over his clothes from the day before. He’d only managed to drag a single arm through a sleeve before he skidded to a halt, eyes growing enormous at the pile of books John left on the coffee table. His knees folded under him as he knelt on the floor before it to pull them forward, carefully sifting through the pile to study their titles. John, meanwhile, lay snoring on the couch on the opposite side, the blanket from over his armchair draped across him. He quickly twitched awake at the sounds of Sherlock shuffling through the books, blinking over at him with a grin.

“Got my message, then?” he asked, his voice gruff with sleep. Sherlock ignored the shiver the voice sent down his back in favour of shifting through the tomb open on his lap. “Still believe it was a dream?”

With most of his focus on what he was reading, Sherlock replied, “Yes, very clever, if juvenile. Hogwarts is split into houses?”

“I should have known you’d be starting me off right away with questions.” John stretched, a tiny sliver of skin showing at his midriff as he reached up to release a crick in his shoulder. He tossed his blanket aside and strolled into the kitchen to set the kettle to boil. “Yes, there are four Houses – Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. They’re named after the founders.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock acknowledged, eyes racing across the page. “Which House was yours?”

John grumbled under his breath, something that sounded a bit to Sherlock like, “It’s too early for this,” before shouting back to the living room. “You’re the detective, deduce it!”

“Not enough background yet, John!” Sherlock frantically flipped back to scan the table of contents. “I need to know the requirements for each, which character traits favoured you between one House and another!” He let out a cry of success and raced to the appropriate page, twisting around to lean back against the coffee table’s sharp edge to read. John managed to not only finish making his tea but also set himself up with a decent breakfast without further interruption. He set a steaming cup of tea out to Sherlock’s shoulder on the table before sitting back down on the couch to tuck in to his meal. Halfway through, Sherlock’s voice rose from between the book’s pages. “Gryffindor.”

“Hmm?” John glanced up from his plate. “What was that?”

“Gryffindor. Your House.” Sherlock craned his neck around to stare at John. “The House of bravery, known for their need for action and to bring on justice. Also because of their apparent rashness in manner, which I am forced to admit you tend towards on occasion.”

John cricked his head to the side thoughtfully. “Fair points, but no. Hufflepuff.”

“Hufflepuff?” The sneer Sherlock sent him was a mixture of disbelieving and condescending. “But I was under the impression that House was left for the remainder of people who didn’t fit elsewhere. You’re far too interesting to be a Hufflepuff, John.”

“Oye, those are my people you’re mocking. And you can’t just judge your ideas on the House from Hogwarts, a History.” John quickly finished his meal and set the empty plate aside. “Hufflepuff is about acceptance, sure, but it’s more complicated than that. There’s a focus on loyalty, on sticking to what you believe in and standing behind your friends when they need you. It’s not giving up just because of what others might say or because it’s too hard – quiet dedication, I suppose, or doing a thing because it’s right rather than for the attention. We favour putting your all into whatever you do, whether you succeed or not, rather than who makes the most noise while doing it or managing to get it done the fastest or best way. We give everyone a shot.”

Sherlock’s nose crinkled in thought before he nodded. “I stand corrected; that fits you quite well. I suspect I myself would be in either Ravenclaw or Slytherin.”

“Most likely,” John agreed. “I suspect you’d lean more towards putting yourself in Ravenclaw, but I’ve always seen you as a bit of a Slytherin. Ravenclaws tend to miss a bit of the exuberance and ambition that makes you **you**.”

Sherlock cocked his head at the comment. “Making me out to be a future dark lord, are we, John?”

“Not all Slytherins are evil. Not all Sherlocks are psychopaths. Or sociopaths, for that matter.”

John watched the surprise in Sherlock’s eyes meld into a pleased warmth. His lips formed into a tentative smile that John couldn’t help but return. They watched each other silently for a few moments before Sherlock broke their contact to clear his throat and study his bare feet. “Thank you, John. Despite everything, you still manage to find the best in me.” He gained back a bit more of his natural confidence by the time he continued. “I need to get in contact with Mycroft, as loathe as I am to admit it. I need to find out more about the Holmes those men mentioned last night. You contacted Harry Potter after I passed out, I’m to assume?”

“Yeah, Harry came down with some Aurors and brought the two we got back in to the Ministry. I warned him you might try and force yourself back into the case. Not gonna happen, I’m afraid. Now that the wizarding authorities have got them, you won’t be allowed anywhere near them.”

Sherlock waved a distracted hand at John and shoved the book from his lap to stand and pace. “No matter. An unfortunate thing that I couldn’t question them first, but I know well enough without it. I need everything, absolutely **everything** , you can bring me on your parents’ deaths, John. Between that, seeing our three current victims, and your word on it, it should be ample information to begin an investigation.”

“Investigate…Sherlock, are you trying to take up the case of my parents’ deaths?”

“Certainly not, John.” He turned to shoot John a sly grin. I’ve already taken it up, don’t be ridiculous. Now can you get me the information I need or am I going to have to call Harry Potter myself?”

“Of course you fucking snuck his number from my phone, you cock.” Though he was shooting insults at him, John had broken out into an enormous grin. “God, thanks, Sherlock. Seriously. I…it just means a lot, having you do this.”

“Naturally.” The warmth stayed in Sherlock’s eyes even as he motioned John off. “Now go. Get me everything you can. The game is on.”

~~~

A week passed with Sherlock spending half of his time investigating the Watsons’ deaths and the rest of it learning everything he could about the wizarding world. John doubted that, under normal circumstances, he would still be a free man given the endless number of Muggle protections laws he most certainly broke in providing Sherlock with the information, but there were certain advantages to working through Harry Potter himself. If anyone had been able to fight off the effects of a memory charm, it would be Sherlock, so attempting to keep him away from the truth after being given a sliver of it would have been pointless anyway. Besides, having someone to speak with about the other half of his life, particularly when that person was Sherlock, gave John an enormous sense of relief and ease. Of his many friends and acquaintances he could have told, the first that came to mind was Sherlock. The fact that he hadn’t figured it out himself sooner still surprised him greatly.

John spent every possible free moment at Baker Street, answering questions Sherlock shot out occasionally and helping him dig through the complicated materials. Given the time period when the deaths occurred, the information on the case was scattered, as disconnected as the Ministry itself was at the time. The only reason the case was even recorded in official Ministry paperwork was because it happened before Voldemort was able to infiltrate it, and it thankfully had been saved from being carelessly destroyed over an obsession with getting rid of anything Muggleborn related. Not even Death Eaters could be minded with those who were already dead and out of the way.

An unfortunate side effect of the investigation, however, was the resurfacing of memories. When he was with Sherlock, John usually found himself able to disconnect, able to separate his private emotions from the puzzle to be solved. It was just another case with him, unfortunate in the loss of lives but a case nonetheless. The sensation never lasted outside of 221b, unfortunately, and thoughts often bombarded John as soon as he returned to Mary. Distractions such as work at the clinic and caring for Cecelia worked for a time, but his job always ended and Cecy slept. After a few days’ sleepless nights, he wasn’t surprised at Mary questioning him.

Somehow, despite all of the work he and Sherlock were putting into the investigation, John never found the means to tell Mary the truth. He easily could keep the wizarding aspect out of his explanation; it wouldn’t be the first time he altered the story for the sake of concerned Muggle friends. But sharing the sordid details of his parents’ deaths with her, not to mention the evidence coming out to suggest that the same individuals were at it again, seemed like an unnecessary burden to place on her. Harry and Sherlock were already taking care of it and, if he were to be completely honest with himself about it, he never fully trusted her after what had happened the year before. It seemed like far too much of a risk to share this new information with her, particularly when at his core John would prefer that she not be involved.

The next Saturday after the incident in the park, John was off at the clinic, so he offered to bring Cecelia along to Baker Street while he and Sherlock continued their investigation. Opting to take a taxi to save uncomfortable time on the Underground with an infant meant he got to the flat quickly, Cecelia dozing on his chest and more books slung into the bag across his back. Not even Mrs. Hudson was up and about in her flat yet, leaving John to pass over leaving Cecelia for a visit with her adoptive aunt and favourite napping partner. He headed straight upstairs and unsurprisingly found Sherlock awake and active, pacing a dizzying path from his bedroom, through the kitchen, and into the living room. John caught him muttering to himself as he passed by, climbing across the couch in his progress. He didn’t even acknowledge John’s presence until he set the books down in his path, blocking his way.

“Metamorphmagus!” he shouted, his expression somewhat crazed. John motioned for him to lower his voice with a wave of his hand and a gesture down at his chest. Sherlock’s eyes widened as he spotted the tawny head from amongst the folds, his hands instantly reaching out to snatch the bundle from where it lay wrapped around John’s back. With a grin, John deftly removed the wrap and transferred it and Cecelia to Sherlock, finally bringing his manic energy to a standstill. Cecelia was the only thing beyond death (which, even in Sherlock’s case, was only a slight difficulty to maneuver) that seemed to bring him into an almost sedate state. Mary often claimed it was the Watson blood running in her that could still and soften the great detective, but John suspected it was the honest curiosity and open mind she had as an infant new to the world that cooled his own racing thoughts. Regardless, John knew that he wouldn’t have to worry about Cecelia being well taken care of when she was at Baker Street.

“When’s the last time you ate?” John asked in a low voice as Sherlock lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the couch. His eyes remained fixed on Cecelia’s head poking out from the silver and black fabric Sherlock had chosen himself. The wrap was one of various necessities that came from an overly invested Sherlock in the months leading up to Cecelia’s birth. He dove himself into dedicating all of his free time towards baby research until he was satisfied that Baby Watson would only have the best. The wrap, a shimmering black that almost appeared dark blue, was spotted with stars echoing the night sky and had been one of the more useful items Sherlock purchased during his enthusiasm.

“Two, three days ago, I suppose,” Sherlock muttered, running a single finger over Cecelia’s eyebrows. The soft touch made her squirm in her sleep, letting out an inquiring coo that brought a delicate smile to Sherlock’s face. John chose to ignore the fluttering feeling of happiness that nestled comfortably in his stomach whenever Sherlock looked at Cecelia in that way.

“Before we do anything, you’re having a cup of tea and at least a bit of toast,” John replied as he headed for the kitchen. “You’re not carting my daughter around the flat without a proper dose of blood sugar in your system.”

Sherlock grunted, but didn’t actually protest, his focus more on Cecelia. Once brewed, John added a spoonful of the protein powder he kept hidden in a back cupboard to Sherlock’s tea. He suspected Sherlock was on to him and had found the powder ages ago, but apparently from his lack of irritation and the fact that it remained in its original spot he didn’t mind. He balanced both their teas and toasts back out into the living room to be greeted by a newly awake baby.

“Well, good morning, my lass,” John commented to her, stopping as he passed to plant a quick peck on her head. He smiled at her happy murmurings in reply and passed Sherlock his tea. He downed nearly half of it in a single gulp, ignoring or indifferent to how scalding hot it still was. John munched his own piece of toast thoughtfully while watching Sherlock inhale his, somehow managing not to shower crumbs on Cecelia’s head. Without a word, John stood to prepare her morning bottle, handing it over to Sherlock in a manner that felt far more natural than it ever did with Mary. Sherlock deftly rearranged her to create better access between bottle and baby. “Now, you hollered something when we got here? Something about metamorphmagi?”

“Is that the plural then? Hmm.” Sherlock’s eyes remained locked on Cecelia, watching her mouth and throat work at taking the milk down. “But yes, metamorphmagi. You said McGonagall told you that they suspect a metamorphmagus may be behind the deaths.”

“Yeah, which is both a help and a hindrance.”

“How so?”

“Well, there aren’t many of them – it’s a rare gift to have, and I’ve personally only known two of them, and even then they were related. So it theoretically should be easy to narrow down which one it is, but because of the skills they have, if they want to hide…well, it’s pretty easy for them to do.”

“All of my digging and I can’t find a thing on them!” Sherlock complained, but without his usual vigour due to the baby he held. “There’s absolutely nothing about them in any of your books! I need more, John, and none of this is helping!”

John turned thoughtful. “Like I said, they’re not common and the last I knew we didn’t know much about them. But I may be able to get you a firsthand account.”

Sherlock’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head from excitement. “John…are you saying…”

He shifted in his seat to pull his phone out of his pocket. Scrolling through his contacts, he pulled up the name he wanted and sent out a message. When he finally looked up, Sherlock was still watching him intently, Cecelia’s empty bottle held aloft above her face. Cecelia, in turn, stared up at him curiously, hands grasping up to try and pull it down. At John’s raised eyebrows, Sherlock shook himself a bit and set the bottle on the coffee table. His body automatically set about preparing to burp her, but his attention was focused on John. “You said you knew two metamorphmagi.”

“I do,” John nodded in agreement, but a frown quickly crossed his face. “Well, did. Tonks was one of my best friends at Hogwarts. I think she would have frustrated and intrigued you all at the same time.”

“Tonks?” Sherlock’s forehead crinkled as he cringed. “That’s not a name I’ve come across in the books, at least not yet.”

“Understandable – I’ve only got older books, ones that were available when I was still a part of the wizarding world. I imagine if I’d found you something more recent, there would be mentions of her. She and her husband Remus were a huge part of the resistance. But her dad was a Muggle and Tonks was her surname, so you wouldn’t have found it anywhere. Her mother was a Black, if that rings a bell.”

“Black I’ve heard of,” Sherlock agreed. “They’re a rather prominent name. Principally a pureblood family, the majority of the members inclined towards the Dark Arts. Rich, overly confident, influential. Your basic overrated and overpowered gentry who suffer the consequences of their arrogance.”

“Oye, not all Blacks are bad news. I was mates with Sirius after I joined the Order. I’ll admit he was a bit rash, particularly when it came to Harry, but he went through hell and came out of it with most of his senses still intact. I still can’t believe he managed as long as he did around those Dementors without more side effects.”

The motion was small, but John could tell that Sherlock began clutching Cecelia slightly tighter at the mention of Dementors. “I can unabashedly say that I can happily go my entire life without meeting one of those particular creatures.”

“They’re bastards, they are,” John agreed. “I’ve only seen them once and that was enough. Apparently they got rid of them from Azkaban after Voldemort was gone.” John’s phone vibrated next to his leg, causing him to snatch it up and read the incoming text. “Ah, perfect. Teddy hasn’t left for the continent yet. I wasn’t sure when he and Vicki were planning on heading out, since she’s got to be back by September for Hogwarts.” At Sherlock’s questioning expression, John smirked. “Well, I did say I knew two.”

Before John could reply, a sharp crack echoed through the flat, causing them both to jump. Sherlock hunched over the edge of the couch, using his chest and arms to shield Cecelia. Cecelia, meanwhile, let out a joyful squeal at the sound, tiny hands clapping and pointing at the figure that had suddenly appeared in the room. John recovered from the shock next, jumping to his feet to seize the young man into a tight hug. The hug was returned with enthusiasm and a laugh that caused Sherlock to finally glance up.

The young man suddenly standing in the sitting room was tall, perhaps a bit shorter than Sherlock, with shoulder length hair pulled back into a casual ponytail. Sherlock swore when he first saw him that his hair was dark, but as he examined him closer, he began to realize it was a light brownish blonde, similar to John’s but without the gray streaked throughout. As the two pulled away from each other, Sherlock caught a flash of navy eyes identical to John’s, and if he didn’t know enough about Harry Watson, he would have sworn the man was John’s nephew.

“My God, Teddy, you can’t actually be that tall,” John said as he gaped up at the man. The smile on his face was so large that it was a surprise he could talk through the contortion of it. “Tell me you haven’t actually gotten that much taller than me.”

The man let out a surprisingly light chuckle. When he spoke, his voice was far more soft and melodic than Sherlock expected. “Yeah, ‘fraid so. For a while Gran thought I wasn’t going to stop growing, and Harry still thinks I’m putting him on that this is my real height. Not much use, though, making myself taller or shorter, besides not being as much fun. I do like to keep some bits actually my bits, plus Vic likes how I tower over her.” He finally turned enough to spot Sherlock and his eyes widened. “Merlin, you mean I really do get to meet him? You weren’t just putting me on?”

“Of course not – Teddy, this is my best friend, consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is Teddy Lupin.”

Teddy had just reached a hand out to shake Sherlock’s when he abruptly stood, still cradling Cecelia. “You’re the metamorphmagus John was talking about. But there’s no sign of it, no outward way to tell which parts are you and which are a disguise.”

“That’s part of the point of it, I believe,” John chuckled as Sherlock began circling Teddy and studying him intently. He sent Teddy a reassuring grin when he was sent a baffled and slightly alarmed glance. “And you did say you wanted to know more. What better chance have you got if not a source himself?”

Sherlock gave a muffled sound of agreement as he squatted down on one knee on the floor, eyes narrowing as he studied Teddy’s arm. In reaction, Teddy snatched his arm away and scrubbed at it as though that would remove the bizarre sensation of being at the heart of Sherlock’s focus. “Right, you weren’t exaggerating, Uncle John. But this is getting kinda creepy.”

In a single smooth move, Sherlock stood and spun to stand nose to nose with Teddy. His hair abruptly flashed from John’s shade to a bright ginger red in his surprise, and Sherlock leapt backward at the sudden change. From on his chest, Cecelia gave off a high-pitched giggle that brought John’s attention back to her. “Come on, wee lassie, time to give your how do to young Ted. He isn’t the only one who’s done some growing, hmm?” John maneuvered her out of the wrap without Sherlock paying much attention, his focus completely centered on Teddy. Teddy, meanwhile, broke off his stare with Sherlock at the appearance of Cecelia and reached his arms out eagerly for her. With expert grace, he took her from John, allowing his hair to melt back into a dark brown. The sight caused Cecelia to giggle once more and reach out a fist to snatch up a handful.

“Effected by sudden, unexpected actions, triggered by emotional stimuli.” Sherlock marched back into Teddy’s personal space, but this time it was expected. His hair remained unchanged for the moment, but his eyes soon shifted to mimic Sherlock’s, a misty green that day. “I suspect it takes a fairly long time to learn how to control the changes.”

Teddy nodded. “I’m still rubbish at haunted houses – Uncle John learned back when I was a kid that it was a bad idea to bring me to the Muggle ones. Most of the time my reflexes can catch the changes, but every so often something slips through.”

“You aren’t actually related.” It was definitely a statement, but John answered it regardless.

“Teddy’s called me that ever since he could talk. Even though I was off in Afghanistan when he was still small, I rang him up when I could and sent letters. I still have a collection of all the pictures he drew to send over to me. It just became natural for him to call me Uncle John, particularly after I got back to London and could see him more often.”

“You’ve just graduated from Hogwarts this year.” Sherlock continued his pacing, his hands resting loosely clasped behind his back. “No immediate plans quite yet, but not too concerned. You obviously have some sort of part time job, as well as an incredibly steady girlfriend, to keep you close to home for the time being.”

Grinning sheepishly, Teddy couldn’t stop the blush that brought a soft dusting of pink across his cheeks. “Er, yeah, I suppose you could say that.” He stuttered into silence as Sherlock snatched up one of his hands from around Cecelia to study it. Sherlock straightened and released his hand with a sharp nod.

“Stop dithering about worrying if it’s too soon, for God’s sake. You’ve been friends since she was born and seeing one another since she began attending Hogwarts roughly five years ago, give or take a few months. You already know she’ll say yes; what’s the point in getting yourself all irritable by waiting?”

John gaped at Teddy, who stood part stunned and part amazed watching Sherlock as he strode over to situate himself in his armchair. “Right, that’s creepy,” he remarked with a snort. “Awesome, but mostly creepy. Seriously, I haven’t even picked out the ring!”

John barked out a laugh and pulled Teddy into another hug, slightly less firm than the first due to the baby between them. “You fucking aren’t,” he muttered in Teddy’s ear, though Teddy could tell from John’s tone that he was more surprised than disapproving. “We’ve all been waiting for this for practically fourteen years!”

“No time like the present, then, I guess,” Teddy replied, the half grin on his face morphing into a beaming smile. “You don’t think we’re too young?”

“It’s a hell of a lot more common for wizards to marry young,” John said as he pulled away with a shrug. “As long as you wait until she’s had the chance to graduate as well, I don’t see the problem with it. Like I said, more than one of us was expecting it.” His gaze shot down to Cecelia staring up at him. He reached a hand out to lay it gently on her head.” “Sorry, Síleas my girl. Just don’t go blabbing to your mum about Da’s sailor mouth.”

“Mary is well aware of it and doesn’t mind as long as it’s not often,” Sherlock called, steepling his fingers under his chin. “But if her first word is anything at all relating to a swear word, I cannot guarantee I can stop her from murdering you.”

“Of course,” John chuckled. He gestured Teddy to his armchair and pulled one of the kitchen chairs over to sit beside him. “Anyway, this isn’t just a social call. We really do need your help on this, Ted.”

Teddy nodded and gestured his head at Sherlock. “How much does he know? About us, I mean?”

“Enough that your question is idiotic,” Sherlock interjected, face visibly displaying his irritation. “Your mother was Tonks, the other metamorphmagus friend John had. You inherited the characteristic from her. Are there other ways to learn it?”

“Variations, but not anything exactly like actually being a metamorphmagi. Polyjuice potions and being an animagus are about the closest your usual wizard can get, but they’re rough illustrations of what having the skill is like. I can tell a metamorphmagus from someone under a Polyjuice potion any day.”

Sherlock’s eyes shot up in interest at that statement. “You’re able to tell when another wizard is like yourself? Is it innate or something that takes development?”

“Innate, definitely. It’s a sort of a sense of connection, I guess, or a kind of scent without it actually having a smell. It’s hard to describe, but I’ve never been wrong in picking out a fellow metamorphmagi.”

Nodding, Sherlock reached over the arm of his chair to snatch up a book and began rifling through it. “I’m aware that animagi are required to register with the Ministry of Magic, but I see nothing about whether the same is true for metamorphmagi.”

“It’s not a requirement, but usually it’s general knowledge anyway. As infants, we tend to have almost no control over our changes, so it’s pretty easy to tell right off if your kid’s a metamorphmagus or not.”

“I remember that, back when you were a baby,” John interjected with a faraway smile. “Tonks and Remus asked me to look after you for an evening so they could take care of some Order business. I think your gran was grateful for the break; you were on a bird kick and it was a bit hard to keep control of you when you weren’t even on the ground.”

Teddy grinned in return. “I do not pity anyone who has to deal with a metamorphmagus child. It was bad enough when I had temper tantrums later on; I can’t even imagine what it was like when you couldn’t even ask me what was wrong because I wasn’t old enough to talk.”

“Are there ways to distinguish someone as a metamorphmagus other than being one?” Sherlock prodded, leaning forward in his seat. “A spell, a potion, something of the sort beyond seeing the individual change?”

“Not as far as I know, but John might know more on that. I haven’t had the reason to do anything beyond seeing them to figure it out, and I’ve never had anyone try and use anything on me other than just asking me.”

“I’ve never heard of any ways to check other than just asking a person,” John replied thoughtfully. “I mean, it’s rare enough that you don’t exactly go out of your way to ask every witch or wizard you meet if they’re a metamorphmagus. It just sort of came up with Tonks – one day she went to bed with short brown hair and came down the next morning with long blue hair. Naturally we were all a bit confused, and she just told us what she was upfront.”

Sherlock’s lips contorted into a scowl. “There must be a way to find the differences, something in the DNA that indicates a metamorphmagus versus your typical wizard. Honestly, there should be some sort of sequence that designates a magical being over a Muggle. I ought to be able to formulate some sort of system to figure out if an individual has magical skills, or even just a relative in their genealogy that had magic…” He trailed off and meandered into the kitchen to dig through some of his current experiments. Teddy watched him go with raised eyebrows and a slightly gaping mouth. John chuckled at the sight and gave him an apologetic smile.

“He does that. More often than not, actually.” His smile turned soft as he glanced down at Cecelia still in Teddy’s arms. “I’d be careful, he’s likely to come back and snatch her away from you. He claims he can think more clearly with her nearby.”

Teddy gave her a gentle rub across her back. “Has she started showing any magical ability yet?”

John heaved a sigh and shook his head. “Not that I’ve seen, and Mary hasn’t mentioned noticing anything off. My parents used to tell me that I started acting a bit off as early as six months old, so I guess we’ll just have to wait and see. With the fact that I’m a Muggleborn and Mary’s a Muggle, the chances of her being a witch are probably pretty slim. Honestly, I’m not sure which I’d prefer to happen – being able to share the wizarding world with Cecy would be amazing, honestly, but is it bad for me to think it would be easiest if she wasn’t?”

Teddy was in the middle of shrugging when he gave a jolt. Sherlock reached over his head and snatched up Cecelia, shooting him a dark scowl for holding captive his tiny inspiration. Cecelia squealed happily in reply, babbling up at Sherlock as he carried her with him back into the kitchen. Once the pair was settled, Sherlock balanced on the edge of his seat to lean over his notes on the table and Cecelia curled into his elbow to curiously watch. Teddy turned to shoot John a half grin. “It’s strange to see him…I dunno, so **natural** at taking care of her. I mean, obviously I only know what you’ve told me and what I’ve seen on your blog, but it just seems so out of character. How’d he get so good with kids, anyway? For Merlin’s sake, she adores him as much as she does you, and she’s not even a year old yet!”

Chuckling, John shook his head with a grin. “Honestly, I couldn’t say. The first time I saw him with a kid was at my wedding, and it’s bloody amazing how he interacts with them. At least part of it is how he treats them, I suspect – he talks to them instead of at them, just like he talks to an adult. He told us right off when we found out that Mary was pregnant – well, when **he** sprang the news on **us** – that we were already naturals because we took care of him. I suppose he just connects with them easier, and they can sense that in him.”

“Well, whatever it is, he was made to be with kids.” The two continued to watch as Sherlock spoke quietly to Cecelia, lifting papers to gesture at something on them and add commentary. Although there was no way for her to understand the scientific gibberish he spoke, she watched intently as though completely riveted, occasionally murmuring back and attempting to grab at the sheets. Sherlock always managed to keep them just out of reach, shooting her a warm smile at every attempt. John felt himself echoing the smile without intending to, enjoying the sight as though she actually were Sherlock’s own. Though unrelated biologically, John had considered Sherlock as a secondary parent to her since they discovered she existed, holding just as important a role in Cecelia’s life as Mary or him. He wasn’t entirely sure how healthy such an idea was, but it was true all the same.

Teddy interrupted John’s thoughts with a prod at his good shoulder. “So all this metamorphmagus discussion is about that case Harry’s on, right? The one that they think is connected to your mum and dad’s deaths?”

The smile on John’s face quickly slid away to be replaced with a furrowed brow and a small frown. “Yeah. The most they’ve got is the fact that someone involved is a metamorphmagus, plus the wand and two wizards we managed to catch. I hate to ask, but do you have any idea of who the metamorphmagus might be?”

“I actually only know maybe one other, to be honest,” Teddy said with an apologetic smile. “There’s a kid at Hogwarts who’s a metamorphmagus, a couple of years below me. Nice kid, Hufflepuff, quiet, keeps to himself mostly. I can’t imagine a thirteen-year-old is involved in this, though, and he obviously didn’t have anything to do with your parents.”

John let out a frustrated sigh. “Yeah, I figured you wouldn’t be much help on that bit. It’s just such a rare gift, you know? It ought to be this great help because of that and it just isn’t working out that way.”

They were interrupted by the sounds of footsteps climbing up the stairs and Mrs. Hudson’s gray head peering in through the open front door. “You hoo, boys! So sorry to interrupt, but you’ve – why, goodness! You already have a guest!”

Teddy leapt forward to shake Mrs. Hudson’s hand, shooting John a questioningly raised eyebrow as he did. John gave him an almost unnoticeable shake of his head, correctly interpreting Teddy’s unasked inquiry of ‘witch?’ Teddy’s beaming smile never faltered during the exchange. “Edward Lupin, ma’am, a pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry I didn’t stop by to say a hello on my way up; I didn’t want to bother you. I’m a friend of John’s.”

Mrs. Hudson rested a hand on her chest and matched Teddy’s smile. “Well, aren’t you just the charming young man! I’m Mrs. Hudson, dear, it’s wonderful to meet you. Any friend of our John’s is more than welcome at Baker Street. But I was just coming up to tell you both you’ve got another visitor.”

Mary’s blonde head popped suddenly over Mrs. Hudson’s far shoulder, shooting John a grin and a wave. Rather than wait for Mrs. Hudson to move, she shifted and opened the kitchen door, swooping in directly behind Sherlock and Cecelia. At the sight of her mother, Cecelia squealed and reached her stubby fingers out to her. Sherlock reluctantly attempted to pass her over, but Mary swatted him away. “Go on, Sherlock, you’re fine. She sees me nearly twenty-four hours a day, I think I can afford to have her favourite not-quite uncle for a bit.”

While Mrs. Hudson returned downstairs to her flat after a smile at her boys, Teddy reached out a hand to grab hold of John’s arm. John’s brows rose as he allowed Teddy to pull him aside and deeper into the living room. He could see him shaking almost imperceptibly and reached out a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Ted…lad, what is it? Are you feeling okay? Jesus, you’re pale…what happened?”

“John, I need you to listen to me carefully,” Teddy whispered, his eyes currently blue and blown huge. “That woman…I don’t know who she is, but if she hasn’t told you already…John, she’s like me. She’s a metamorphmagus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr in the near future for a post about the results to the house tests I took for John and Sherlock!


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Teddy's revelation, John and Sherlock are left attempting to deal with the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well shit y'all. I got some seriously amazing responses to this last chapter, both here and on ff.net. Not gonna lie, I was feeling really awful about my writing the day I posted that chapter. I had just been rejected to my choice Creative Writing Masters program, so the reaction I got on chapter eight was seriously just what I needed. I have since applied to a few other schools, so here's hoping something works out. Anyway, time to put you out of your cliffhanger misery. We've got some action going down in this chapter, and I look forward to seeing what you think!

John gaped up at Teddy, mouth open wide and eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline. He blinked slowly, making a deliberate point to calm his suddenly racing heart before clearing his throat to speak. “Edward Remus Lupin, I need you to say that again and slowly. You said which is a what?”

“The blond one, she’s a metamorphmagus, John, I swear to you.” Teddy’s words tumbled from his mouth almost before John could finish his question. “I’m absolutely certain. Whoever she is, she’s a metamorphmagus, and a strong one at that. I swear on my parents’ graves I’m telling the truth.”

John’s eyes clenched shut as he shook his head. “Fucking hell, you have to be kidding me. You can’t actually be saying Mary is a metamorphmagus, that’s she a fucking…a fucking **witch**! I have known her for almost two years now, Teddy, she cannot be a witch, that is not even bloody possible!”

“Who is she?” Teddy craned his neck around John as though he could peer into the kitchen where Mary and Sherlock were talking without being noticed. “Does she know you’re a wizard and hasn’t said anything?”

“That **woman** is my **wife**!” John seethed, hands coiled into fits at his sides. “And I ought to know absolutely bloody everything about her since I read every fucking document on that damn bastard of a flash drive!” John made to turn and storm into the kitchen, but Teddy jerked him back around to focus on him. John’s breaths came in deep and jagged as he silently fumed.

“John, hold on. She’s a metamorphmagus…is there any way she could be involved…in the murders? The ones that just so happened to start popping back up?” John’s eyes flew up to Teddy’s, an expression of mixed disgust and horror etched in the faint lines of his face. “Yeah, sorry, no, I just…it’s probably a coincidence – “

“There’s no such thing as coincidences.” John released a shivering breath before composing himself with a strong sniff of his nose and a straightening of his spine. He grasped Teddy firmly by his shoulders. “Ted, listen to me. We need to get Sherlock and Cecy out of here as soon as possible. Do not let Mary see you, understand? Ring Harry as quick as you can, tell him to get a force of Aurors here right away.” He steeled himself with a firm squeeze of Teddy’s shoulders and made to enter the kitchen. Teddy briefly halted him with a somewhat choked noise.

“No, Merlin, John, I didn’t mean to insinuate…just because she’s a metamorphmagus, doesn’t mean she’s the one behind the attacks! I’m sorry, I jumped to conclusions, but don’t just send them after her because of this one thing – “

“It isn’t just the one thing, though, lad. She’s tried to kill Sherlock before and damn near succeeded.” John’s voice went deadly quiet, so that not even Teddy could hear him. “I nearly lost him twice before, I’ll be damned if I let someone take him from me again.” Taking a last calming breath, he plastered what he hoped was a genuine-looking smile on his face and walked into the kitchen.

Mary had sat in the empty seat next to Sherlock while John and Teddy spoke. She glanced up from talking with Sherlock when she heard John enter, a giant grin on her face. It took quite a significant amount of John’s military training to keep his smile from wavering at her response. “There you are, John. Who’s this friend of yours, then? Anyone I know?”

“It’s a case, actually,” John quickly explained. He glanced down at Sherlock, whose only response was a single raised eyebrow. “Something we really need to take care of, unfortunately. Are you done at work already?”

“No, just on my lunch and thought I’d stop by. I was kind of hoping to join you two for a bit. But if you’re busy, I can head out on my own, maybe see if Mrs. Hudson’s free for a bite. I wouldn’t want to bother you if you’re on a case.”

“That might be best. I’m sure Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t mind at least a spot of tea, since we’ve really been too busy with this mess to even send her a quick hello in passing. I’ll pop in down there when we head out to say a goodbye if you’re still there.”

“Sounds great.” Mary stood and placed a kiss on Cecelia’s forehead. “She won’t cause you any trouble while you’re out, will she? I know the girls at the clinic wouldn’t mind if it’s only an afternoon.”

“No worries, Cecy’s fine,” John was quick to reply. His haste caused a questioningly raised eyebrow from Mary, but she shrugged it off with an easy grin. She patted Sherlock’s shoulder, placed a small kiss on Cecelia’s head, and headed back down the stairs with a final wave. John’s relieved release of breath was drowned out in her footsteps.

“What happened?” Sherlock muttered, the only sign of possible agitation showing in the slight increase of pressure around Cecelia as he held her closer.

“Mary’s a metamorphmagus; Teddy spotted her instantly. We need to get the both of you out of here, Mrs. Hudson too if we can.” John reached into his sleeve to pull out his wand. “I don’t know how much you’ve read on it, but I’m making you a Portkey. I’ll set it for five minutes from now to take you to Harry’s. That’s going to be our best option for the moment.”

Sherlock began stroking an enormous hand down Cecelia’s back without noticing he had begun the motion. “But it wasn’t on the drive. Everything on Mary’s past, everything to know, was on that drive.”

“There isn’t time, Sherlock. I need to get you two someplace safe.” He searched around the room before settling on the kettle, muttering, “Portus!” with a focused expression. The kettle shuttered briefly, but John was satisfied the spell had worked properly. He turned back to Sherlock, who watched him with a mixture of amazement and uncertainty. “Right, this is going to be uncomfortable, but with Cecelia it’s the best way. In five minutes, you’ll need to touch the kettle, **exactly** five minutes, understand? You’ll feel yourself being pulled away, sort of a bit like a fish on a line, and it’ll send you to Harry’s house. I’ve already put a fairly strong Griping Charm on the wrap, but you’ll want to take hold of Cecy pretty firmly just in case. The spell will transport both of you, but you’ll take the brunt of the pressure of it.”

“What do you plan on doing? Approaching her? I’m not leaving you to face off against her alone, John.”

“And I’ll not let her do to you what she did to the others!” John paused to compose himself and grasped Sherlock’s arm tightly. “Look, Teddy’s contacting Harry and the Aurors, they should be along right at the same time you’re off. But I’m not risking you or Cecy getting hurt in whatever might happen.” John’s grip tightened, impossible as Sherlock thought it could be. “Please, Sherlock, I need to know the two of you are safe. I can’t risk it, not again.”

Sherlock’s expression wavered between determined and something John couldn’t quite place. Just as he was opening his mouth to speak, they heard footsteps coming back up the stairs and Mary call out. “Hey Sherlock, have you got any honey up here? Mrs. Hudson was out and I was wondering – “ Her statement cut off with a strangled noise. The next thing they knew, she let out a muttered, “ **Shit!** ” and came rocketing into the living room, heading straight at Teddy. Just as she’d climbed up, Teddy passed the still open doorway and their eyes had locked in sudden clarity. Both of them reached for their wands at the same moment, Teddy diving instinctively for the couch as a makeshift shield.

John shoved Sherlock and Cecelia under the table, shooting out as many protective spells around the three of them he could think of. He glanced down at his watch and muttered a dull curse under his breath. At the same time as Mary and Teddy began volleying a series of curses back and forth at each other, the front door downstairs burst open and Harry’s voice called up at them. John could tell his shields were wavering, his magic overused after such a long time being ignored. Silently hoping Harry and the Aurors would look after Teddy, John wrapped an arm tightly around Sherlock’s waist and stared him directly in the eyes. “I swear to God, if you let go, I’ll personally kill you myself,” he stated with a firm squeeze around Sherlock’s middle before clenching his eyes shut and Apparating them all away.

The trip may have been quicker that way, but that didn’t make it any easier. John was moderately talented at Apparating back when they took their tests, but unfortunately seventeen was farther away at this point in his life than it was close. They landed with a dull thump in front of the statue honoring James and Lily, a spot where John knew there were anti-Muggle charms in place. Instantly he let go of Sherlock to check on him and Cecelia, wary of any potential splinching from the sudden and unexpected form of transport. Both seemed fine, if slightly shaken, and John could finally take in his own state.

His leg seared with pain once he had enough focus to attend to it. The curse he’d taken there during the final battle nearly always hurt after he Apparated, whether from the spell itself or from the rough landing. It gave out on him suddenly now, causing Sherlock to shoot out a free arm to help steady him to the ground. John leaned back against the base of the statue to stretch his leg out, cringing as the pull of rough muscles sent spasms of pain through his leg.

“John? Are you okay? Tell me what I should do.” Sherlock fluttered anxiously at his side, seemingly unable to stop moving as he darted from being down at John’s feet to up and studying his face. He stilled instantly when John reached out to grasp his hand and give it a reassuring squeeze.

“I’m fine, Sherlock, it’s fine. The residual curse always acts up a bit when I Apparate. Bringing the two of you along just added a bit more pressure is all. Give me a minute to rest and I’ll be fine.”

Sherlock’s slight shaking finally melted into ease at John’s comforting words. “That was Apparation, then? You weren’t concerned about splinching?”

“Oh, I was plenty concerned, I just didn’t have much choice. The Portkey didn’t activate for another two minutes and I didn’t want the two of you to get caught up in the crossfire. How’s she doing?” John nodded at Cecelia resting in her wrap on Sherlock’s chest. He pulled back the starry fabric enough to reveal her face, bright and thoughtful as ever. She stared out at them curiously, her eyes eventually roaming above their heads to where the statue loomed. She began to babble up at the stone figures, fingers poking and prodding at thin air as she gestured up at it.

“She appears to be well,” Sherlock replied, running an enormous hand over her head in a manner meant more to comfort himself than anything. He followed her eyes up to where they focused and studied the statue, squinting up at it with a few sharp blinks. “Rather unusual place for a statue, since there are only a few random dottings of houses along this lane. Where are we anyway?”

“Godric’s Hollow – it’s where Harry and his family live. His parents were living here when they were killed, so the statue is in memory of them.” John cocked his head to the side with a frown. “Hold on, it’s got enchantments on it so only wizards can see it. It’s not just an obelisk to you?”

“I am familiar with obelisks, John, and if this is one, it is a failure as a piece of artwork. There are three people, a man, woman, and child. I’m assuming this is a young Harry with his parents, from what you’ve said.”

John nodded and attempted to stand with difficulty. “Yeah, right before they were killed. It’s odd that you can see –” He staggered and almost fell, but Sherlock snatched at his arm just in time. “Thanks. I might need some help getting to the house; it’s not far away, but my leg is damn stiff.”

Without a word, Sherlock threw John’s arm around his shoulders, body slightly bent to accommodate their height difference. John angled them in what he thought was the right direction from Harry’s last descriptions to him and they set off. They were lucky they arrived at midday on a pleasant weekend in August, otherwise the street might have been crawling with wizards and Muggles alike. The sudden appearance of two men, one slightly injured and the other carrying a baby, would have been likely to cause more than a few raised eyebrows.

John led them down a side street to their left, pointing at a moderate sized house a few doors down. “I think that’s them – check the number, we’re looking for 183.” They confirmed their search with the neatly printed mailbox, three shining gold numbers spelling out the correct location from two houses away. It took them a bit to hobble down the pavement, but Sherlock was surprisingly patient with John as he set himself a rhythm of movement and kept himself to it. Sherlock pushed the blue gate at the front of the house open for John at the same moment a fiery haired woman burst from the home to run out and meet them.

“Thank Merlin you’re here, John, Harry was horrified something had happened,” she exclaimed, rushing forward to take John’s other arm. “What happened? How did you get here?”

“I set up a Portkey for Sherlock and Cecelia originally, but we ran out of time,” John began to explain. “Mary and Teddy were already exchanging fire, I had to get us out as quick as I could. I managed to Apparate us to the square, but the spell set my old curse off.”

The woman nodded sympathetically and led them inside. The house was homey and open, mostly decorated with photographs and the occasional painting than anything overly dramatic. As they maneuvered John into a chair in the living room, three bodies raced in from the back of the house, all jabbering loudly at the same time.

“Mum! Mum! Where’d Dad go, Mum? Do you think he’ll still be able to give me that flying lesson this afternoon? Mum, he promised he would!”

“Mum, can I go over to Rose and Hugo’s today? Hugo says they’ve got some bowtruckles living in the trees in their backyard and Aunt Hermione is going to teach us about them! I won’t be out late, I swear!”

“Muuuuuuum, James took my copy of Quidditch Through the Ages **again**! He says he hasn’t, but there are tea stains in it, and I never read it and drink tea at the same time! There was that one time, but it was a completely different book, and these stains don’t look right! James uses more milk than me and the stains are way too light to be from my tea!”

“Okay, you monsters, enough!” Though a fairly unassuming woman in stature, their mother commanded the room to silence with the boom of her shout. The three children immediately fell silent, all gazing up at her with expectant and eager faces. “Lily, you’re more than welcome to go over to see Rose and Hugo as long as Aunt Hermione has said it’s okay. Al, I’ll clean up your book in just a moment, even though I’ve seen you spilling tea on the thing more times than I can remember. And James, he’s off to London for work, but I don’t know how long he’ll be gone. If I get a chance, I’ll show you some moves myself. You’re built more like a Chaser than a Seeker anyway.” She stared at each of them in turn before making a shooing motion with her hands. “Well, off with you all, then! I have things here to take care of!”

“Is that Uncle John?” Lily, the youngest looking and only girl of the there, peered around her mother’s raised arms to glance at John. “Uncle John, what’s wrong? Did one of your mean robber men hurt you again?”

The woman let out a sigh of exasperation and lowered her arms in defeat. John chuckled and motioned the children on. “All right, you three, come on now, listen to your mum. I’ll visit with you in a bit, if I get the chance. Maybe tell you a few new stories about the robber men?” The trio let out a cheer and dashed off, continuing to yell and stomp about until the sound was abruptly cut off by the crash of a sliding door opening and closing not far away. They could faintly hear them playing outside, but the noises made the homey scene complete. The woman chuckled weakly and fell into a chair, motioning for Sherlock to do the same. He did so tentatively, his instincts setting him on alert. As he sat, he slid Cecelia from her wrap to properly hold her, an unintentional anchor as he studied the woman and John.

“You’re Harry Potter’s wife,” he stated before she could begin. “Obviously a Weasley. I remember from what I’ve read that you’re the first female born into the family in quite a few generations. The descriptions of your hair do not exaggerate.” His focus settled on John, who had slumped so far into his chair that it threatened to pull him into its depths. “Please tell me you are not corrupting these children with your ridiculous reenactments of our cases and simplifying them down to mere ‘robber stories.’”

“You do realize that Lily’s just seven, yeah? And James is only just eleven a few months ago, Sherlock, he’s not even at Hogwarts yet and he’s the bloody oldest. They don’t even really realize the bits I tell them are actually true; I’m not about to traumatize them by including every single gory detail. They spend enough time just worrying about their father. They don’t need to worry about me too.”

“I’m sorry, you’re Sherlock, right?” the woman interrupted with a grin. “And yeah, I’m Ginny. I’ll tell you one thing, Mr. Holmes, John may change things a bit in his retellings, but he certainly has your characterization on point.”

John shot her a weak smile and covered his eyes with a hand. “I’d never neglect the opportunity to show someone how amazing he is, and he’s naturally exaggerated enough just being himself for me to change anything. I need to get back to 221b to make sure it’s going all right.”

Sherlock stood at the same moment John did, passing Cecelia over to a baffled Ginny without sparing her a glance. “Excellent idea, we ought to help Harry and his Aurors. If they’re anything like Lestrade’s bunch of idiots, they’ll need it.”

“No, you’re staying here,” John replied firmly, fixing Sherlock with a dark look and jabbing a single finger back at his chair. “You’re not a wizard, Sherlock, you can’t stand up to this sort of thing properly. Not that you should stand up to a load of men with guns and knives, but this one’s particularly out of your element. Do as you’re supposed to for once and let the proper authorities handle it.”

“For God’s sake, I’m not entirely helpless, John, and this is as much of a concern for me as it is for you. You’re not leaving without me; this is far too excellent an opportunity – “

“She’s killed you once by Muggle means and I’m not going to give her the chance to do it again!” John roared, bringing Sherlock to a stunned halt. He approached Sherlock as he yelled, only stopping when they were so close that the tips of their shoes touched. John pulled in a ragged breath that fluttered across Sherlock’s cheek when he released it, causing Sherlock to instinctively shudder. When he spoke, it was barely loud enough for even Sherlock to hear. “She will never be allowed to hurt you again. As long as I’m alive and breathing, she will never hurt us again.”

Sherlock studied John’s face, eyes alive with determination. The expression dulled down Sherlock’s own agitation, making way for a wave of warmth he refused to analyze too fully. Instead, he gave John a sharp nod. “If you get hurt, I will never forgive you.”

John’s returning smile radiated affection. “Yes you will. It’s what we do – get ourselves into mischief just for the other so we can both come back home.” He reached out a hand to take Sherlock’s in a tight but brief squeeze before taking a step back and Apparating away. Sherlock let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and stood frozen until the sound of Ginny clearing her throat caused him to jump.

“Yeah, I feel the same way every time Harry leaves for Auror business,” she said conversationally, gently rocking Cecelia back and forth in her arms. “Care for some tea?”

~~~

John and Harry returned together later that night, both looking drained but otherwise unscathed. Ginny led them into the kitchen where she and Sherlock had spent most of the afternoon together. The two got on surprisingly well, Ginny talking just enough and about the right sorts of subjects to keep Sherlock engaged and distracted. He even helped her to prepare dinner, Cecelia strapped across his chest as he moved through the kitchen with ease, though Sherlock make her promise not to tell John. They’d been chatting about some of Sherlock’s cases when the familiar popping of Apparation came from the living room and Harry called out.

“Gin? You still up, love?”

Sherlock met John out in the living room, giving Harry and Ginny a few moments alone in the kitchen. The calming sound of their faint conversation just barely carried out to them as they both glanced the other over anxiously. “It went well – Teddy and Mrs. Hudson are both fine. But…”

Sherlock stepped toward John, slowly squinting down into his slightly lowered face. “She escaped.”

John could only nod, refusing to meet Sherlock’s eyes as he lowered the pair of duffle bags from his shoulders. “I grabbed some of your things, mostly a bit of clothing and the books I brought that I knew you hadn’t read yet, and collected some of my things that were still at the flat. Luckily we keep Cecelia’s diaper bag fairly organized – she should be set for a bloody month with the amount of stuff in that thing.”

“John, look at me.” Sherlock’s voice was low but stern, and John let out a sigh of acceptance before letting his blue eyes drift up to Sherlock’s own. They were a dark blue in the semidarkness of the living room, similar in shade to John’s.

“You can’t deduce it?” John asked, attempting a weak smile at his failed attempt to joke. When Sherlock’s only reply was to continue to stare at him unblinkingly, John huffed and crossed his arms. “Right, yes, she got away, are you happy? By the time I got back, they’d managed to get Teddy and Mrs. Hudson safely out – Teddy did a fantastic job, by the way, managed to dodge and deflect every curse Mary sent at him – but she was going mad up there, yelling and shooting spells at anything she could find. The place is a mess - not that it wasn’t already - but they finally managed to get the wand from her. She didn’t change once through the whole thing except for her eyes. They switched from color to color faster than you could keep track.”

“But she had her wand. That means she couldn’t possibly be the metamorphmagus we’re looking for, unless the wand we have isn’t hers or she managed to get a new one.”

“That’s what I thought as well, until I heard what it was she was yelling. Just…constant apologies, my name, your name, my parents’ names, all mish mashed together in a jumble. None of it made a bit of sense, but why would she be apologizing if she wasn’t involved?”

“She may not have wanted to be,” Sherlock mused. He hadn’t realized how close they were to each other until John’s head thumped down on his shoulder, causing him to blink down in surprise. He tentatively reached a hand up to stroke at the nape of John’s neck with his fingertips, the pads barely touching the fine hairs on his skin. John shivered but melted into Sherlock’s shoulder, so he continued. “There’s every possibility that she was forced to be involved. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Because her real background of being an assassin, which actually turned out to be fake, wasn’t bad enough.” John chuckled, but the sound was hollow. “Just once, it would be nice to have something in my life turn out at least a bit normal.”

“Normal is boring,” Sherlock murmured into John’s hair. “You’d never be able to settle for normal.”

“As dreadfully touching as this little scene is, I have pressing business to attend to and really do not intend to spend all of my evening in Godric’s Hollow.” The drawling voice behind Sherlock caused them both to snap around, mouths gaping. Perfectly tailored as always and umbrella in hand, Mycroft Holmes stood stiffly in the kitchen doorway, a mixture of amusement and disgust warring on his face.

“The fuck?” John yelped, jumping away from Sherlock as though he were on fire. “Mycroft…why…”

“Oh, how ridiculous of me!” Sherlock proclaimed with a roll of his eyes. “I ought to have realized it when you came to visit after McGonagall. What are you, then, official cake tester to wizardkind?”

“Head of Muggle Relations, actually,” Mycroft replied with the hint of a sneer. “I am the go-between. The British Government is not the only one to whom I owe a small part of my loyalty.”

Sherlock snorted and crossed his arms, not unlike a petulant child. “You probably knew of this whole case the entire time and purposefully kept it from me. You should know by now, Mycroft, that if it’s to do with John, I’ll always manage to find my way in.”

John couldn’t help the small grin that formed at the comment. “I realize it shouldn’t really surprise me anymore when you somehow manage to be involved, but here we are again. But you’re not a wizard?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I am afraid not. I merely exemplify the Muggle half of Muggle/wizard relations. Though our bloodline does have a spotting of magical background, I’ve been told.”

Sherlock’s interest piqued at the offhand comment. “What sorts of background?”

“Now’s not the time,” Mycroft said with the wave of his hand. “Since the incident occurring at Baker Street this afternoon related to both a wizard and Muggle, it is my responsibility to see to it that the Muggle in particular is protected until the suspect is apprehended. I assume, John, you can be counted on to act as Sherlock’s protection, as always.”

“As always,” John echoed with a stiff nod and clench of his jaw. “But where are we going to? Obviously 221b is out, seeing as Mary would expect us there, and the same goes with our flat. And it isn’t exactly private that Harry lives in Godric’s Hollow.”

“You can use Grimmauld Place if you need to,” Harry interjected. He and Ginny emerged from behind Mycroft with their arms linked. Harry’s face was visibly a touch more pink than usual, suggesting that talking was not the only thing that had been done while they were alone. “I’ve kept it up over the years, including some of the more tame protection charms on it, and the only ones who know about it were in the Order.”

“I’d much rather it be somewhere with a few other wizards on hand, honestly,” John said, shooting Sherlock a peculiar glance. Sherlock’s face turned thoughtful as he continued. “Just to be safe, particularly since Mary will most likely be looking for Cecy.”

“Precisely why I contacted Minerva McGonagall earlier and asked if she had some spare room for the three of you,” Mycroft stated with finality. “As soon as you both are ready, Harry and I are to conduct you both safely to Hogwarts.”

Sherlock’s face lit up with excitement at the news. “I was under the impression that Muggles couldn’t even approach Hogwarts, let alone enter it.”

“While typically that is the case, concessions have been made due to the circumstances. It’s useful this all came about while school wasn’t in session so that the professors could take the time to alter the charms around the grounds. Obviously once you arrive, certain rules will be set in place to ensure that you…don’t inflict too much mayhem on the property or towards the professors. You’ll be expected to be on your absolute best behavior, Sherlock; though the thought is nightmare inducing, I am not afraid to take you away if you cause too much mischief and secure you in one of my own personal bunkers.”

“Heaven forbid we allow that to happen. I’ve spent enough time locked away in one of those with your people to last me multiple lifetimes.” Sherlock shivered visibly, causing Mycroft to roll his eyes. He snatched up one of the bags John had brought and darted his gaze between John and Harry. “Well, should we be off? No time like the present.”

“Sherlock at Hogwarts…dear God, I hope you all know what you’re getting into here,” John muttered. He huffed out a sigh and took Cecelia from Ginny’s waiting arms with a grateful smile. “Thanks, Gin, really. Tell the kids I give them my love.”

“Good luck, John. Stop by any time – we’ve missed seeing you around more often. It was a pleasure to meet you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock held out a hand to shake Ginny’s, surprising them all. “I admit that this eventful little evening was not as misused as I originally expected. It is good to see that not all of John’s acquaintances are as dull as many of them unfortunately turn out to be.”

John rolled his eyes and linked an arm through his elbow. “He means thank you. And to think, you were doing so well. Pleasant, even.”

“I’d hate to disappoint you by acting too out of character,” Sherlock replied with a small grin. Ginny eyed them with raised brows, a tiny smile curling at the edge of her lips. Mycroft merely smirked before setting a delicate hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry gave Ginny a quick peck on the cheek before turning to John.

“Outside the Three Broomsticks sound okay?” he asked, grabbing another of their bags and slinging it over his shoulder. “It shouldn’t be too busy this time of night, and we can walk up to the school from there. Are you sure you’ll be okay taking Sherlock as well?”

“Sounds good, and I’ll be fine.” John glanced up at Sherlock, who was watching him intently. “All set? Hopefully this trip will go a bit more steadily than the last.” Sherlock’s only response was to grip John’s arm tighter against his side. John gave him a quick nod and the three Apparated away.


	10. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, Sherlock, and Cecelia settle in at Hogwarts and begin searching to find out who exactly Mary Morstan was or is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Lots of news coming with this chapter! First off, I have officially finished typing up the full rough draft of this story! Hopefully that will result in quicker updates, particularly since there are only THREE CHAPTERS LEFT! Gahhhhhh. I completely didn't realize how close we were to the end. However, I have good news - I plan on turning this into a series of stories, and already have the next two mapped out. FI's sequel is called Dissendium and will deal with some answers that are still going to be hanging about at the end of this, and after that will be Prior Incantato. I'm still trying to come up with a good name for the series overall, so if you have any thoughts feel free to give me a holler. Also, I'm not sure if the comment was here or over on ff.net, but this story has a Johnlock endgame. Hopefully the end of this chapter will help make that a bit more...obvious, but that's your warning. XD Nothing too graphic, obviously from the rating, but still. Anywho, this chapter's a long one (mostly because it didn't have a very good place to cut off), but there are a few cameos that hopefully you'll enjoy. Let me know what you think!

Their landing was more confident than when they travelled to Godric’s Hollow, John’s leg quivering only slightly as they touched down but standing firm. He gave it an instant reflex shake to loosen the muscles and checked on Cecelia, who slept through the entire ordeal. She snuggled in closer to John’s chest when he tucked the wrap around her once more. Sherlock, meanwhile, glanced around them at their surroundings with an intense interest, attempting to take everything in by the subtle glow of the flickering lights inside nearby buildings. Behind their backs, the muffled noises of people talking, glasses shifting about, and dull music emanated from the Three Broomsticks. From the sounds of it, the pub was preparing to close down soon, its remaining patrons gradually making their way home or back to their rooms above.

“Hogsmeade village,” Sherlock muttered under his breath to no one in particular. “The only all wizarding community in Great Britain. This is a legendary moment, John, the fact that a Muggle has managed to be Apparated here, of all places. Not even the parents of Muggleborns usually make it to the village, even though they are often on the Hogwarts grounds for the yearly graduation ceremony. Apparently they have records of all of the Muggles who have ever set foot in the town and it doesn’t even number in the dozens. I must find the opportunity to come back during the day and observe the happenings.”

“Why am I not surprised you know more about Hogsmeade than I do?” John asked, removing his arm from Sherlock’s elbow to shove him carefully forward. “Oye, come on, it’s late, I’m exhausted, and my entire life has fairly crumbled down on top of me today. I think I deserve a large whiskey or a larger bed, possibly both.”

Sherlock pouted briefly but followed John’s command, heading in the direction he led. Harry and Mycroft popped up behind them and immediately began to follow. The pathway to Hogwarts was dark, not used to having travelers to or from the school so late at night, but the glow of Harry and John’s wands lit it well enough for their small group. They remained silent the entire way, Sherlock attempting to stare through the gloom of their surroundings and John hardly awake enough to move. Soon the castle’s dully outlined form loomed over them as they approached the pair of giant front doors.

As they pushed inside, Sherlock’s eyes nearly popped from his head from how wide they grew. He attempted to take in everything at once, his head darting about almost fast enough to make John dizzy from watching him. A young man, slightly stout and with an enormous grin spreading across his face, waited for them at the foot of the stairs. Harry let out a laugh and launched himself forward to hug him, the pair griping each other tightly and slapping each other on the back in a sound greeting.

“Neville! Merlin, it’s been **ages**! How are you?”

“Busy as always,” the man replied as they pulled apart. “You’re looking well. Ginny and the kids still the same?”

“They always run me ragged, but I wouldn’t change it for anything.” Harry turned to gesture at their guests. “Neville, this is Mycroft Holmes, Muggle Liaison for the Department of Muggle Affairs, and his brother, consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. I’m not sure if you remember – “

“John Watson.” Neville strode forward to shake John’s hand, their grins matching by now. “I haven’t seen you in nearly twenty years, but I’d recognize you anywhere. Where did you put yourself off to all this time?”

“Here and there,” John simply replied, shooting a glance at Sherlock. “I’d heard you were back here teaching. Herbology, yeah?”

Neville gave him a quick nod. “I guess after everything that happened here, I couldn’t just leave. Besides, Pomona said she’d never agree to retire unless it was to me. It’s been interesting, to say the least. But who’s this?” He peered into the wrap to stare down at Cecelia. “Why, John Watson. You managed to finally have the little one you always talked about.”

“As much as I’m enjoying this delightful little reunion, we have business to attend to,” Mycroft interrupted smoothly, glancing between Sherlock and John with raised eyebrows. “Mr. Potter and I need to discuss the next plans in uncovering where our fugitive is. And I’m certain John and Sherlock could do with some rest after their unexpectedly eventful day.”

“Right, of course,” Neville said, motioning for the two to follow him. “I’ll get you to where we’ve got you staying – it’s a bit small, particularly since I didn’t know you’d be bringing a baby along, but hopefully it’ll do.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, Neville,” John replied, shooting Sherlock a sharp look. “Sherlock, take Cecelia for a mo? I need to talk with Harry for a bit before he goes.”

Sherlock nodded and took her gingerly, his long fingers wrapping carefully around the small body to avoid waking her. He glared at Mycroft as a farewell before turning to a chattering Neville. John, meanwhile, pulled Harry slightly aside, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Keep me posted on absolutely everything that happens, Harry, **everything** ,” John muttered quickly, keeping his voice low so hopefully Sherlock wouldn’t overhear. “Do you have any idea of who she really is?”

“We just found out about her today, John, there’s no way we can know more than you at the moment.” Harry sighed and patted John’s hand. “You’ll know as much as we do, I promise. Hell, what you already know may be the best we’ve got on her. We’ll do everything we can to put this right.”

John nodded, distracted and thoughtful. He felt both pairs of Holmes eyes watching him with diligence, so he moved away with a bleak smile and waved goodbye. Harry and Mycroft slipped back out into the night, leaving John to observe in silence. He was eventually brought out of his reverie by Neville’s voice. “Come on, I’ll see you both settled. We’ve actually got you down near the Hufflepuff common room – there was a spare classroom we were able to convert pretty easily and figured it’d be easiest for you to find, John.” Sherlock trailed behind them as they chatted quietly, eyes darting about as they walked to observe what he could. The corridors were fairly dull so late at night, the lamps lining the stone walls turned low. Though he expected it from what he read, he still gave a start when he noticed movements from one of the portraits. He began speaking lowly to the sleeping Cecelia, allowing his deep voice to bring her into a deeper sleep as he listed off his various observations as they went. His voice carried just enough for John could hear, causing him to turn and smile slightly at the sight of Sherlock hunched over her dozing form.

The path to their quarters was fairly easy to remember, even given how close they were to John’s old common rooms. They were just down a few doors from the portrait of fruit that led to the entrance to the kitchens. John’s nose twitched at the memory of sneaking off to visit the house elves late at night, befriending them easily and gaining limitless treats as well as fascinating new companions. He made a mental note to bring Cecelia to visit the elves before they left as they rounded a corner and met a large wooden door.

“We didn’t set a password, but we can if you two would prefer it,” Neville said as he led them inside. The first room was a small but cozy sitting room with two armchairs, echoing the setup in 221b. A miniature kitchenette, nothing more than would be found in a hotel room, sat directly across from the fireplace and chairs. They could make out a narrow hallway across from the door that presumably led to a pair of bedrooms. John suspected McGonagall was behind the various homey touches, but he didn’t think on it very hard before flopping down into the more comfortable looking of the pair of seats. Sherlock followed his example, albeit more gracefully due to the bundle on his chest. “I’ll leave you all to rest. If you need anything, there’s Floo Powder in that green urn – feel free to give Minerva or me a call. We’ll keep our fires lit.” John replied with a smile and a wave, and Neville left them with a dull thud from the closing door.

“So were you planning on sneaking off alone while I slept or giving it a few days to properly plan?” Sherlock’s voice was sharp and cutting when it broke through the quiet. John’s head jolted up at his question, finding himself surprised despite all of the times he’d seen Sherlock do the same to countless others, not to mention himself. He sighed and rubbed a hand down his face, the bristles of a beard tickling his palm.

“You really just can’t turn that off, can you?” Sherlock remained silent, waiting with surprising patience for John to continue. John rested his forehead in his palm, staring intently down at the simple rug at their feet. “Will it make you feel any better if I tell you that I was going to do some research in the library before I left?”

“You’re not going after her alone, John. I don’t care how skilled you are, at magic or combat, you’re too emotionally attached to do this by yourself. You’ll act on these emotions, attack before questioning. We don’t even know if she’s the one behind the deaths – “

“Why are you always so determined to defend her?” John interrupted, slamming his fist down on the arm of the chair loudly enough to rattle the urn on the mantle. “She fucking killed you, Sherlock, and don’t you dare try pulling that non-fatal wound shit on me again. I was more than ready to end it after she nearly took you away from me just after I got you back again, but you’re the one who convinced me otherwise. Why the hell are you so determined to keep this chaotic idiocy going?”

Sherlock was silent, his eyes fixed on Cecelia’s sleeping face. He brushed a hand over her forehead, its size dwarfing her already tiny form, but the motion was as gentle as his movements when he conducted a fragile experiment. His reply was low, but the almost dead quiet of the room allowed it to be easily carried. “It was supposed to be what you wanted. A proper family with a proper life. No fear of whether you’d be home uninjured that night, that something would happen to ruin everything. It was supposed to be perfect because that’s what you deserve.”

“Has it occurred to you that perfect, at least your version of it, might not be what I really need?” John’s question back was nearly as quiet. “Have you ever thought that what we had, the cases, the running, even the body parts in the fridge, were exactly what I’d been hoping for?” Sherlock neither looked up nor replied. John let out a soft sigh and stood, carefully walking over to take Cecelia from Sherlock’s arms. The motion finally forced him to meet John’s eyes, their color a golden hazel from the firelight. He watched the wrinkles form around John’s eyes as he smiled. “Get to bed soon. I don’t care if it’s just transport; we’ve got research to do in the morning.”

~~~

John was gone by the time Sherlock woke the next morning, but he knew he hadn’t gone far. A cup of still steaming tea sat on the mantle, warmed with a charm and accompanied by a note from John.

**Your phone won’t work in here – something about Muggle technology interfering with magic - but we’re just at the library. You’ve read Hogwarts, a History, so come on then. Find us. JW**

Sherlock inhaled the tea as he dressing, attempting to ignore the fact that John knew to spell it to just the right temperature to stay warm without scalding him if he drank it all in one go. He made his way to the library with ease, managing to keep himself from getting distracted by the various magical diversions around him with the idea of pleasing John. After their enlightening conversation the night before, he was interested and slightly terrified of seeing how things would progress between the two of them. He attempted to convince himself that his enthusiasm came purely from the need to start work on the case, but the fluttering sensation that persisted in his midsection suggested otherwise.

Sherlock’s hastened pace screeched to a halt the moment he entered the library. He would always be able to appreciate being born in an age where information was easy to find with a mere point and click, but nothing truly compared to the crisp tang of thousands of worn books. The added smell of ink and feather quills gave the entire scene an appropriately mystic element as Sherlock slowly made his way down the long aisles of books, his shoes echoing softly with each step.

“Oye, there you are!” John sat in another cozy-looking armchair, this one situated near a table under a window. Cecelia was strapped in her wrap across his chest, attempting to snatch at the pages John managed to keep just out of reach. Her head spun around as Sherlock approached and she let out a series of unintelligible babbles.

“Found anything interesting yet?” Sherlock asked, taking the seat across from John after giving Cecelia’s head a good morning pat.

John shook his head and gently pushed a tower of books towards him. “Not yet, but I haven’t been at it long. I had to make sure none of the books would start screeching at me when I tried to read them.”

“Excellent, you went into the Restricted Section. Backgrounds on known Death Eaters?”

“That’s where I’ve started. We know enough about metamorphmagi that Mary has to actually be a female, otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to become pregnant. Only someone whose permanent internal organs have a female makeup can have children, even if it’s a metamorphmagus reformed into a woman. So at least we’ve got the advantage there, since Death Eaters were more likely to be male. We’ve got less of a list to go through.”

“All Death Eaters were given the Dark Mark on their forearm. Are we certain Mary is actually one of them? Can the abilities of a metamorphmagus counteract a dark spell to remove the tattoo?”

“Not sure. One of the things we know for sure about my parents’ deaths was that Death Eaters were involved, though. They left the Dark Mark in the sky and were able to identify one caster as a known Death Eater from studying the magical residue on the bodies after death.”

John began to look uncomfortable when the discussion turned to his parents, causing Sherlock to reach out and grasp his hand. The action startled them both, but John recovered first. He shot Sherlock a grateful smile and squeezed his hand back, keeping it open and available on the table. Though the invitation was obvious, Sherlock soon pulled his own hand away to let it cower under the tabletop.

“Does the Ministry keep close tabs on former Death Eaters?”

“Well, most of them are dead or in Azkaban, so it’s fairly easy. I’m not sure what’s been done to the ones who managed to escape, but I imagine they have to be on record somewhere so we know what they’re up to.”

“This would be so much easier if we had access to direct Ministry files,” Sherlock muttered as he flipped through pages. “I could ask Mycroft, obviously, but what a preposterous idea.”

“Heaven forbid we have to ask your brother for help.” The two shared a grin before immersing themselves in reading, falling almost silent for hours. The only interruptions came when Cecelia needed looking after and a pair of house elves stopped up with a tray of food around noon. Sherlock, naturally, was fascinated, but not in the treats they bore.

“Do different sorts of clothing have various meanings?” he asked one as he crawled about them, studying them from different angles. “I imagine a shirt or trousers would mean more than a pair of socks, for example.”

“Socks is always special, sir” the first elf answered adamantly. “Socks is what Mr. Harry Potter gives to Dobby to set him free. We is always respecting socks in Dobby’s memory, sir.” Sherlock shot John a glance, but only received a shrug in reply. The elves soon returned to the kitchens, imploring them to call on them if they needed anything, and the two men returned to their research.

The afternoon light continued to fade gradually into a brightly painted evening with only the sounds of rustling paper and occasional mutterings of interesting findings interrupting the quiet. Eventually John pushed away from the table to rub at his tired eyes. The sky had turned from faintly cloudy that morning to bright, the sunlight peering out from its cover with just enough time to cause a dazzling sunset. He took a few minutes to watch the giant squid lazily propel itself across the sun dappled surface of the lake, attempting to point it out to Cecelia. She didn’t seem to mind it, however, having found a more interesting target for her attention in a trio of owls flying up to the owlery. The pair watched silently for another few minutes, John absentmindedly stroking a thumb down Cecelia’s arm, when muttered grumbling from Sherlock caught his attention.

“Hmm? What was that, Sherlock?” When he didn’t immediately reply, John turned away from the window to glance over at him. He was hunched so far over his book that he was nearly bent in half, his mad curls obscuring his eyes. John would have simply thought he was engrossed in his work if not for the fact that the hands griping the book’s cover were white and shaking from how fiercely he held on. John stood and approached slowly, wary of startling him, and managed to kneel on one knee beside the chair so he could properly see Sherlock’s face. His expressive brows were contorted in confusion as he stared down at the page, biting his lip in an oddly endearing manner. “Sherlock? You okay? What did you find?”

“Magic,” Sherlock muttered, frowning as his eyes darted across the page to read it again. John tried not to laugh, covering his snort in a cough as best he could. Sherlock caught it for what it really was, however, and shot him a glare.

“No shit you found magic. I meant something a little more specific, maybe along the lines of Mary and her past?”

Sherlock let out a huff of frustration and spun the book around so John could read it, pointing a single long, elegant finger at the appropriate spot. “Not on Mary, but we may have an explanation for how I’ve managed to use a bit of magic and combat Muggle wards. It would seem magic really does run in the Holmes family.”

John read the offered section, not more than a paragraph long, detailing a curious case of varied magical ability. The magical quill known to write down the names of magical children for consideration at Hogwarts when they were born would very rarely end a name with a question mark, an obvious yet uncommon uncertainty. Generally it was thought that it was a malfunction in the quill, causing it to be put through standard maintenance to ensure it was working properly, but no issues were ever found. Each name that was included with a question mark, however, had the same distinguishing quality of including the surname of Holmes.

“That’s strange. Didn’t Mycroft mention something about your family having magical connections? This might be what he meant.”

“But what does the question mark signify? From everything I’ve learned on this quill, the only names it marked down were individuals with a distinct magical ability. One can assume that a question mark might indicate uncertainty, but what would that mean in this situation? A wizard with a bit of skill, one that could develop skills in the future, someone who might have a talent at it if given the proper motivation? Are you attempting to tell me that absolutely no one in thousands of years of magical history has attempted to try and understand such a fascinating abnormality?”

“I mean…I suppose not?”

Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh and slammed his head back against his armchair. “Wizards lack an extremely significant amount of scientific curiosity. You all have so much potential with all that added skill and you turn out to be just as idiotic as the rest of humanity.”

John interrupted Sherlock’s complaints by snatching the book out of Sherlock’s hands, settling it on his lap as he sat cross-legged on the floor. The process of maneuvering around Cecelia caused him to grumble under his breath until Sherlock reached out to take her from his chest. He settled her into the crook of his elbow and watched as John skimmed through the pages to return to the beginning.

“Where did you find this?” John asked, his voice sharp and demanding. He continued to scan the pages as Sherlock answered.

“Hidden among the various other repetitive books on wizarding families you brought over before I arrived. What is it, John? Tell me what you’re thinking.” 

“AGRA,” John replied hurriedly, gesturing wildly down at the book. As his excitement grew, Sherlock folded himself down on the floor as well, until they sat mirroring each other with their knees touching. Sherlock’s interest furthered John’s excitement until he was speaking almost as fast as Sherlock did during a deduction. “We know the initials from the flash drive, right, and that they stood for the name she gave us in all the shit she put on it. But what if she didn’t change them from her wizarding name? I saw a name on that page that reminded me – I went up against a bloke named Avery in the battle at Hogwarts and I know his father was a Death Eater as well. What if there were others in the family who decided to get into the business too?”

At first all Sherlock could do was stare across at John. Eventually his free hand snaked out to curl around John’s cheek, forcing him to look up. Sherlock’s eyes glittered with pride as he smiled at John, one of the genuine ones he saved only for him. “Brilliant,” he whispered, an echo of the thousands of times John had said the same to him. “You are brilliant.”

John could only grin and flush slightly in reply before Sherlock seemed to realize what he was doing. He snatched his hand away as though John’s skin sent a bolt of shock through his palm, his own cheeks turning a dusty pink as he avoided John’s eyes by staring down at the page. Cecelia reached down between them to pat at the parchment, breaking the suddenly awkward silence.

“Right. AGRA. Yeah.” John continued to turn the pages at a slightly more sedate pace until he found the As. They scanned down the listings of names, Sherlock’s view upside down from his position, until John shot out a shaking hand to point at a single line. His voice started strong as he read, but eventually lowered into barely a whisper. “The eldest son, Alexander Christophe Avery Jr., was the only of the couple’s four children to attend Hogwarts. The others, beginning with their only daughter Abigail Grace Regan Avery, attended Durmstrang Academy.” John straightened to stare into the distance, his eyes lost. “Durmstrang. That would explain why we’ve never heard of her.”

“It doesn’t say anything about her being a metamorphmagus,” Sherlock said quietly, slipping the book from John’s now lax grip to read it over. “Wouldn’t that be mentioned?”

“This is only about the families who attended Hogwarts. We’d need to find something on Durmstrang students to get more on her.” John sprang to his feet, Sherlock not far behind, and they began combing the shelves in search of anything related to the school. Their pile of new possibilities grew slowly and John felt his temporary adrenaline rush at having finally found something of use fading in the realization of just how large a selection they had. He could hear Sherlock grumbling in the next row, casually tossing books over his shoulder as he passed down the row.

“How bloody difficult would it be to put all of this into a ruddy database?” Sherlock eventually snarled, running a hand through his curls with a growl. “I fail to understand how Muggles have come up with the Internet while wizardkind remains in the 1500s or earlier.”

“I told you, Sherlock, magic and technology screw with each other,” John called back, squinting at barely legible titles. “But you’re probably right, honestly. There has to be an easier way of doing this.” He paused for a moment to think before saying, “Keep at it, Sherlock, I’ll be right back!” Sherlock muttered his displeasure as John dashed off to the nearest fireplace. He’d started carrying a small phial of Floo Powder with him at all times just in case, and he quickly tossed a bit into the flames and shoved his face inside. “Minerva McGonagall’s office!” he shouted, and before he’d had much more time than a flash of green pass across his vision he was yelling out to her.

“Yes, Dr. Watson? You yelled?” McGonagall answered from behind her desk, her eyes a mixture of amused and curious.

“Do we still keep portraits of former headmasters and mistresses around? All former ones?”

“Of course. Will you and Mr. Holmes be paying me a call in the near future?”

John grinned sheepishly. “Only if you’re not busy.”

“Not at all. The password is highland pride. Take as long as you need.”

He managed to shout out a thank you before pulling his head from the fire and bolting back to Sherlock. He motioned him to follow and the pair raced to the headmistress’ office, Cecelia safely tucked back into the wrap on John’s chest. Both of them were out of breath by the time John wheezed out the password and they chased the twirling stairs to the top.

McGonagall still sat behind her desk, scribbling on a piece of parchment when they burst inside. The noise hardly bothered her, the only indication that she had even noticed coming from her raised hand as she gestured at the various portraits decorating the walls. Sherlock slowly spun to glance at each individually, his mouth slightly open in amazement.

“They’re the headmasters and mistresses, aren’t they?” he muttered, but John knew he didn’t require an answer. His progression in the conversation proved John correct in his assessment. “Very little is mentioned in Hogwarts, a History about the head’s office, but it’s obvious who they are. What better homage than to leave them in their final resting place?” He stepped forward to stand face to face with a particular portrait, meeting the painted man’s face stoically. Sparkling blue eyes watched him in return, amusement showing from behind the half-moon spectacles. “Albus Dumbledore.”

“I am,” Dumbledore replied with a nod and a smile. “But I’m afraid I do not recognize you, young man. You remind me of someone, however – you’ll have to excuse me for my lack of memory. I’m afraid I know only as much as my living persona did upon death, and even I was known to make mistakes, being a human still at my core.”

“We’ve never met. I knew who you were instantly; it’s impossible to read a book on wizardkind without running across Albus Dumbledore at least half a dozen times. You may recognize me for my brother, Mycroft Holmes. I haven’t an exact time for when he began working for the Ministry, but Mycroft’s always been an infuriating goody-goody, so it wouldn’t surprise me to hear he was somehow involved even almost twenty years ago.”

“Ah yes, Mycroft Holmes. He was assistant to our Muggle liaison back then, so I’m not surprised to hear he’s risen to take on the post. You, then, must be Sherlock.”

“If that is so, then there has been a serious breach in security at Hogwarts,” a low voice from beside Dumbledore’s portrait drawled. Sherlock slowly turned to take in the sallow faced man who glared out at him. “The Holmes boys are both Muggles. You couldn’t even see Hogwarts, let alone walk through its halls.”

“Obviously not,” Sherlock replied, his head tilted to the side and a small smile curling his lips.

“All right, no pissing off the man we came to talk to,” John interrupted as he finally stepped up beside Sherlock. “Severus is as difficult as you are at the best of times, no need to make it worse.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened at the mention of Snape’s name. “You’re the former Potions master. From what I’ve read, your skill at the craft was unmatched at the time and continues to be so. I admit, of all the classes available for study here, Potions intrigued me the most.”

Snape attempted to conceal his pleasure at Sherlock’s words, but the tiny, smug smile at the corner of his mouth gave him away. “It is a delicate art mastered by the few and respected by the fewer. It is hardly ever given the due it rightfully deserves.”

“It’s not unlike chemistry in its delicate timings and measuring of ingredients to produce a specific result. It’s one of the only magical practices, from what I’ve studied thus far, that genuinely attempts to take Muggle science and merge it with the magical, at least in practice. The addition of giving it the right specific amount of magic to what is, at its centre, an experiment is not unlike what a chemist may produce in a lab.”

With each of Sherlock’s words, Snape’s interest grew, his portrait shifting a bit anxiously in his painted chair as though he physically itched to discuss more. John chuckled and shook his head before turning to shoot Dumbledore a grin. “I should have expected this, I suppose. Naturally the mad scientist would get on with the ornery Potions Master.”

Dumbledore smiled in reply. “Indeed. His points are quite valid, however. I imagine our Muggleborn students who excelled in the sciences in their younger years did equally well at Potions.” His gaze flickered down to Cecelia, his smile changing from amused to warm. Cecelia, meanwhile, stared up at him with large eyes, cowering ever so slightly into John’s chest. “I’m glad to see you with a little one, John. Assuming that she is, in fact, yours?”

“She is,” John said proudly, settling a reassuring hand on Cecelia’s head. “Albus, this is my **Síleas** , my Cecelia.”

“She’s lovely,” Dumbledore replied in a low voice, raising a wrinkled hand to wave out at her. She cocked her head in curiosity in reply, mimicking the motion awkwardly. Dumbledore chuckled and gave her an approving nod. “An appropriate name for the lass. I look forward to hopefully seeing her again, here and following in the footsteps of her father.” His eyes shot between John and Sherlock almost too fast to be noticeable, but John caught the motion. “And is Mr. Holmes…?”

“Just a friend,” John replied, but his eyes mirrored Dumbledore’s in his peripherals. “At least for the moment. I’m, ah, actually married.”

Dumbledore’s bushy brows raised and he focused more fully on John. “Congratulations, then, if congratulations are due. I’m a bit surprised you would be here without your partner, however.”

“My partner’s the reason we’re here, actually.” He interrupted the avid discussion between Sherlock and Snape by clearing his throat. “Sorry to bother you, lads, but I actually need to talk to Severus. We’ve got a bit of a situation and I hoped you’d be able to help.”

John quickly explained the story as they knew it while Snape listened thoughtfully. His hand tapped a pattern into the arm of his chair while John finished. “Mary Morstan isn’t familiar, I’m afraid, but I was well acquainted with Abigail Avery. She joined our ranks immediately out of graduation, from what I know, though I always suspected it was more from familial obligation than personal devotion to the cause.”

John felt his chest tighten at the news, the feeling causing his nearly empty stomach to roll in slight protest. “Was she a metamorphmagus, as far as you knew? Or did you know much about her wand?”

Snape’s eyebrows rose in surprise as he replied, “She was a metamorphmagus, making her particularly invaluable to the Dark Lord. He was quite disappointed when she managed to slip from his grasp with hardly any of us noticing. But of her wand, I know little beyond that it was not one of Ollivander’s designs.”

“Perfect,” John muttered, covering half of his face to scrub at it with his hand. “I mean, it was starting to sound like this was the case, but…Jesus, this is hard. I don’t even love her anymore, but it’s still too bloody hard.”

Sherlock had reached out a hand to touch John’s shoulder as he spoke, so John felt when he stiffened. His voice almost too low to be heard even from how close they stood, Sherlock murmured, “What do you mean, you don’t love her anymore?”

John stared up at Sherlock, his eyes boring into the man’s while he replied. “Exactly what I said – I loved her once, at least as far as I thought, but haven’t in quite a long time. Honestly, it’s because of Cecelia that we were together at all. That and…other things.” John broke his stare to glance down at his feet.

When neither man continued for several moments, Dumbledore cleared his throat significantly. “Have you any thoughts of where she might have gone to after John found out, Severus, if Mary is in fact Abigail? Family or friends who might have taken her in, perhaps?”

“The majority of her remaining family are either dead or in Azkaban, doing her little good. From what I knew of her, her friends were few and consisted only of her fellow Death Eaters. I highly doubt any of the remaining ones still free would be willing to shelter a known criminal, particularly if they are attempting to remain in their imprisoned state. She would hardly be worth the trouble.”

“We’re no better off than we were, then, at least not in finding her,” John replied, his voice hollow with resignation. Sherlock’s hand, which still rested reassuringly on John’s shoulder, was a calming presence that sent a wave of warmth through John’s body. Sherlock gave it a firm squeeze before he pulled it away to hang limp at his side.

“We may not have her location, but we can take from what we know where she is not,” Sherlock replied with a confidence he wasn’t sure he truly felt. “It was wise of Harry to bring us here, where we know she is least likely to attempt any trickery.”

John gave him a brief nod of agreement before refocusing on Snape. “Can the Dark Mark still be seen even if she’s a metamorphmagus, or can she do whatever it is she does and make it fade?”

“The Mark can be concealed with makeup and certain concealment charms, but of all of the times I ever saw her change, it always remained,” Snape replied. “I do not know if she actively kept it or simply could not remove it, however.”

“Just one more thing.” John’s eyes roved over Sherlock’s questioning face thoroughly before his hand shot out to grab his in a tight grip. Sherlock blinked in shock, but didn’t release his hand or move away. If anything, he returned John’s grip with an even fiercer one. “Did she…was she part of the group that killed my parents?”

Snape shook his head and John nearly broke Sherlock’s fingers from how tightly he held on. “I’m afraid I do not know, John. I was here at Hogwarts at the time and only had the chance to communicate with the Dark Lord occasionally. If she was, it was nothing he saw fit to tell me.”

John’s face was lowered so he could stare down at Cecelia, but his shoulders and back were fixed into his strong military stance. It was almost as if the move, from long ignored familiarity, and Sherlock’s hand in his kept him firmly set to his spot rather than crumpled on the floor. “I figured that, but it couldn’t hurt to ask,” he said, his words directed toward Snape though he spoke down at Cecelia. “Thank you, though, Severus. You’ve been an amazing help.”

“I’m sorry I could not do more,” Snape replied, watching the pair with a thoughtful expression. “If I can think of anything that might be of use, I will of course contact you immediately.”

John raised his head to shoot Snape a small yet grateful smile. He waved a quiet farewell to Dumbledore and McGonagall and led Sherlock away by the hand. They made it all the way to the entranceway before either made a sound.

“John?” Sherlock asked tentatively, his voice small. John pulled them into a stop and stared up at Sherlock. His expression glowed with determination as he watched John. “We’ll find her. I promise you we’ll find her.”

Finally releasing Sherlock’s hand, John shot him a bleak smile. “I know, Sherlock. I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McGonagall's password for the office is a play both on the fact that she is Scottish and because my college's mascot was the highlanders. Fun fact.


	11. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry finally contacts John and Sherlock with more information. With the clues she leaves, Mary gradually guides them to where she may have gone/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyyyy y'all. Sorry, real life caught up with me again. But good news - I will officially be attending London Metropolitan University this fall to get my Masters in creative writing! I'm super excited and crazy nervous, but I won't be going alone and it's definitely a needed thing to happen. So I give you a celebratory chapter! Complete with cliffhanger! Not much more to say on it...next chapter is the Big Encounter, so this is just the bit leading up to it. Thanks as always for everyone's comments, follows, and kudos!

The next few days past by fairly silently for the pair. They spent most of their time indoors roaming through the thousands of books in the library, looking for whatever clues they could provide as to where Mary might have gone. At night, Sherlock often snuck away from their quarters to visit the headmistress’ office. He and Snape got along better than John had ever seen Sherlock act in his life other than with himself, and they often could be found talking quietly together long into the evenings. John let them be, declining any interaction to spend more time with Cecelia instead. He could tell she was missing her mother despite her little understanding of what had happened, and John tried to fill the void left over as best as he could.

It wasn’t until nearly a week after they first arrived at Hogwarts that John heard anything from Harry. As soon as the owl arrived, he rushed out to find Sherlock on the grounds. He’d gained a further interest in studying Potions during his nightly discussions with Snape and had gone down to the greenhouses to speak with Neville about plants often used as ingredients. John encouraged him to go and bring Cecelia with him, hoping some time out in the fresh air would do them both well. Since they arrived at Hogwarts, Sherlock had been acting a bit off, and John wasn’t sure if it was some sort of illness or an after effect of everything that had happened. Regardless, John knew getting away from the dusty library and immersing himself into a subject he was passionate about would certainly help.

John skidded down the long, gravel-strewn pathway to the greenhouses, squinting in the bright sunlight. He saw a pair of bodies moving in greenhouse two and launched himself in that direction, Harry’s message clasped tightly in his hand. Sherlock and Neville jolted in surprise when John nearly tore the door off coming in, Sherlock’s expression turning to curious worry at the hectic state of John.

“Just came – “John gasped, thrusting Sherlock the note and bending down to clutch at his knees as he heaved in breaths. “It’s from Harry. Something’s happened.”

Sherlock began reading through the note, keeping it just out of reach of Cecelia when she snatched at it. His eyebrows furrowed the more he read, his delicate lips shaping into a frown. “They haven’t found her, not yet,” Sherlock muttered, easily figuring out that what John really wanted was for him to read through the lines. “This is to do with the pair we met up with in the forest the night you revealed yourself. I’m certain they’re still in custody – Harry’s handwriting, though naturally a bit of a scrawl, isn’t nearly as hasty as it would be if they escaped – but something isn’t right. I can’t tell from what little he provided what exactly it is, however.”

Neville glanced over Sherlock’s shoulder to read it for himself, shooting him a quizzical look as he glanced over the no more than a dozen words. “He barely even says anything there, not much more than an invitation to stop by. Hell, he doesn’t even mention the case! How could you possibly get from that to where you did on so little?”

Sherlock shrugged in little concern. “Science of deduction,” he replied without looking up from the parchment. “Normally I’d tell you to look it up, but, well, your faulty magic lacks access to the Internet.” He brought his currently golden tinged eyes up to meet John’s. “What’s the fastest way to get to the Ministry from here?”

“Apparation is the quickest and easiest,” John replied. “We’d just need to get down to Hogsmeade, away from the wards, and I’d have us there in a flash.” He glanced down at Cecelia, her head cocked to the side in interest, and carefully pulled her from Sherlock to cradle her close to his chest. “What about Cecy, though? I’m not taking her with us, not with a risk of running into Mary.”

“Hannah and I would be happy to watch after her for you,” Neville said in a friendly manner. “It’s still two weeks before any students will show up, plus we’re both almost always up here on the grounds since Hannah took over for Poppy. Between the two of us, Cecy will be completely fine.”

Sherlock stepped closer to John as Neville spoke, eventually resting one hand on John’s forearm and the other on Cecelia’s head. A tiny wrinkle of concern ran across his forehead when he looked at John, a worry John seldom saw on him peering out at him from his expressive face.

“Do you trust him, John?” Sherlock muttered low so Neville couldn’t hear him. “Can we?”

John nodded firmly, his jaw set tight. “I trust Neville with my life, Sherlock. He’s one of the few I’d trust with hers as well. She’ll be safest here, where Neville and the other professors can watch over her.”

“I’m loathe to leave her behind,” Sherlock breathed out with a frustrated huff. He knelt forward to place a soft kiss on her forehead. “I know she’ll be safest here, but I hate having her out of sight.”

“I know, but the sooner this is finished, the sooner she’ll be safe.” He twisted his hand to rest over the top of Sherlock’s on his opposite arm. “Once this is done, things can be right again.”

John wasn’t entirely sure if his full meaning was caught in his cryptic words, but regardless Sherlock let out a breath and nodded. They passed Cecelia over to Neville, who cradled her with practiced ease. John felt his chest constrict as they said their goodbyes. It took all of his willpower not to turn back as they headed off in the direction of Hogsmeade, feeling unpleasantly empty. He stirred a bit when Sherlock’s hand darted out to squeeze his, and he refocused on what Sherlock had deduced from Harry’s note.

“So something’s up with the prisoners. Any idea what?”

Sherlock shook his head, his frown deepening. “Not specifically, but I suspect it isn’t good. I wasn’t inclined towards Harry’s tone – he’s confused about something, something to do with the prisoners, but it isn’t concerning him overly enough to come out strongly in his words. As I said before, I need more facts.”

“Well, you’ll get them soon enough.” John increased his pace without thinking to match Sherlock’s so they marched side by side. “Harry said he’s at his office, yeah? I can Apparate us right into one of the safe zones. Hopefully he’s got you the proper clearance to get into the Ministry without walking out Obliviated.”

“Harry, though generally as ridiculous as most, has thankfully been gifted with a fair bit of common sense. I suspect he realized long ago that his wisest option when allowing me to remain Unobliviated thus far was to ensure that it would continue to be so for a long time to come.”

“There’s the smartarse,” John chuckled, knocking his shoulder with Sherlock’s. Sherlock replied simply with a smile and the rest of their brief journey was travelled in silence. Once they passed the invisible barrier stopping them from Apparating, John wrapped a tight arm around Sherlock’s waist and they were gone.

Not unlike Hogwarts, one couldn’t simply Apparate into the Ministry of Magic. Various safe locations had been set up nearby, however, enabling John and Sherlock to get fairly close. They both gave cautious glances around their surroundings before emerging from the camouflaged alleyway, John leading the way to the plain telephone booth he remembered as an entrance. Neither spoke as it carried them into the heart of the Ministry, but Sherlock let out a long suffering groan when the door opened to reveal an all too familiar besuited man with an umbrella.

“Yes, it’s positively horrid to see you as well, baby brother,” Mycroft drawled. “But if you could possibly contain your displeasure just long enough for me to convey you to Mr. Potter, it will be as though I was never here at all.”

“Nonsense, Mycroft, the place positively reeks of your presence.” Sherlock glanced around him in veiled interest before taking off, John close behind. “That new scent of yours if awful, by the way, I’m surprised Anthea hasn’t mentioned it. She seems to be the only one of your various minions able to both tolerate your company as well as speak with you relatively honestly. She’s one of them, isn’t she? I never had the chance to bring it up before now.”

Mycroft rushed to catch up, a sour expression on his face as he took over leading them. “Of course she is, Sherlock, how well off would I be in any sort of situation without at least one witch or wizard close at hand? Now, if you would kindly let me – “

“Yes, very well then, but be quick about it.” Mycroft scowled but didn’t reply, guiding them to an empty elevator and jabbing at a button. Sherlock watched the pair of paper aeroplanes as they danced overhead, an inquisitive expression on his face. “I see where your delightful idea the morning after your reveal came from, John. Clever, I admit, if a bit childish. It’s to avoid droppings?”

“Can’t imagine why the staff wouldn’t tolerate cleaning up literal shit daily on the elevator shafts,” John replied in a conversational tone. Sherlock’s lips quirked into a grin while Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I’m a bit surprised they’re still using the planes, though. That’s what they used the last time I was here, and that was close to twenty years ago.”

Before anyone could reply, the doors opened to reveal a slightly chaotic office. Desks were ordered into a seemingly consistent pattern, but it looked as though the various papers and materials sitting across them were strewn about carelessly, allowing them to be easily shared amongst workers. Chatter echoed through the long room, occasionally broken up by a random shout or laughter. The three visitors were mostly ignored as Mycroft led them through a path between desks, earning the occasional glance but passed over for whatever task was more important. John nearly had to drag Sherlock away from the desks they passed, his interest constantly distracted by the potential magical cases. The office, besides the occasional burst of magic, reminded John of New Scotland Yard, causing a rolling sense of comfortable purpose to settle in his shoulders. With a hand firmly pressed into the small of Sherlock’s back, he shoved the man forward until they reached Harry’s office.

“John, Sherlock, excellent,” Harry said, rising from his chair to dodge around his desk. He sent Mycroft a smile in thanks, which was returned with a stiff nod. Motioning them to follow him, Harry continued to speak over his shoulder while guiding them down a narrow corridor. “I hadn’t personally been down to see the two prisoners you found since we got their confessions, but they were all settled to head out to Azkaban this morning. It, er, didn’t quite work out that way, though.” They reached a doorway where Harry muttered a spell and gave an intricate swish of his wand. The lock clicked open and Harry waited for John and Sherlock to go in first.

The two prisoners lay on their parallel beds, seemingly asleep with something small clasped in each of their hands. Once John and Sherlock approached, however, it was obvious from a single glance that the men were dead. Both pairs of eyes gaped open at the ceiling in frozen terror, locked in their final expressions before they had been hit with the spells that killed them. John recognized the sight of someone hit with the Killing Curse, but it had been many years since the last time he’d been forced to face it directly.

While John studied one man, Sherlock studied the other. Though he had read about the effects of the curse, Sherlock nearly vibrated with excitement at the prospect of inspecting it firsthand after knowing exactly what had caused the death. He reached into his pocket without looking away from the body, pulling out his leather gloves and magnifying glass. Once the gloves were on, he began twisting the man’s wrists about with gentle motions, searching for any signs of fatal wounds. He found none, but an all too familiar etching was carved into his forehead. As he flipped the man’s hand so that the palm fell open, a rosebud fluttered out, its blood red petals standing out starkly against both the lighter color of the petals’ ends and the paleness of his skin at death.

“Blood traitor,” Sherlock muttered as his eyes roved back up to the etching. He turned to shoot a glance over at John. “Mean anything specific to anyone, other than the obvious?”

“It was a common phrase back when Voldemort was still around,” John replied with a sigh, rocking back onto his heels. “The same sorts who called Muggleborns Mudbloods were the most likely ones to use it. Typically it referred to people or families who were purebloods but favoured befriending Muggles rather than getting rid of them.”

“Do we know who these men were specifically?” Sherlock asked, turning to direct his question at Harry. “We heard at least one of their names before John took them out. Travers.”

Harry gestured to the man lying in front of John. “That would be this bloke. He was a known Death Eater we’d been after for quite some time after the Battle at Hogwarts. The other one, Lewis Jones, was as well, though he tended to stay more towards the neutral zone among the Death Eaters.”

Sherlock nodded and returned to studying Jones. “Not exactly blood traitors, then, are they? And if they were the ones to do the original killings we were investigating, they certainly wouldn’t kill and maim each other. Besides, I suspect you have their wands in custody.”

“That was the first thing I checked when we found them – both wands secured and unmoved. We even did a few Prior Incantatos on them to check out the last spells the wands cast. They were the same as when we brought them in, just the curses they sent at the two of you before John knocked them out.”

“Well, this obviously clears up any questions of whether Mary’s involved,” John muttered, leaning back with a deep sigh to sit on the hard floor with one of the osiria roses in his hand, twisting it slowly between his fingers. “I mean, she’s got the ability to get in and out of here unnoticed because of the whole metamorphmagus thing, and we know she has a wand again. But why the hell would she break in to the Ministry to kill the same blokes who helped her do the murders? It’s not like they’re going to tell us she’s in on it, at least not now, and if anything she’d be better off breaking them out than killing them. Why go to this trouble just to get rid of them herself?”

Sherlock didn’t reply to John’s questions, but his forehead furrowed in thought as he rubbed a gloved finger over the words etched into Jones’ skin. He abruptly stood and pulled the gloves off with a snap, looking between Mycroft and Harry. “Have you made any leads into who specifically may have been involved with the murder of John’s parents? Or any additional information on the wand you first recovered?”

“We can’t go back far enough into it to check on the spells it cast, beside it being nearly impossible to figure out accurate times and places for when specific spells were cast,” Harry explained. “Given everything that Travers and Jones told us before they died, however, we know that at least five people were involved in the Watsons’ deaths – the two of them, a woman named Abby Avery, Yaxley, and one of the Rosiers. Besides these two and Avery, the others have been in Azkaban since the Battle.”

“Additional security should be placed around the two in Azkaban as quickly and silently as possible. If we can, I’d like the opportunity to speak with them myself.”

Harry excused himself to do as Sherlock demanded and John stood to come up to Sherlock’s side. In a voice low enough so only he could hear, John stated, “I suppose this is the last bit of clue we needed to know that Mary definitely is Avery.”

Sherlock gave him a small, jerking nod. “The bit with the roses seems to be the final touch to let us, you specifically, know that she’s involved. Though inscribing ‘blood traitor’ on them seems to be sending an odd sort of message, both to us as well as Harry and his Aurors. Obviously it’s meant to have some sort of meaning, but whether to them or you specifically is uncertain.”

“Why bother doing all this now, though? Without this and the roses, we still wouldn’t know for sure if Mary was Avery, and keeping them alive could have kept us distracted from finding her for days longer. It seems ridiculous for her to waste her time on them when she could be escaping notice instead.”

“Sentiment,” Sherlock muttered, stretching out a long fingered hand to stroke the rose in Jones’ now loose grip. Before John could ask him to explain, Harry came rushing back in, his expression grim.

“We need to get to Azkaban now,” he said, placing a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. “I’ve got a few of my Aurors already on scene, but I have a feeling this is something you ought to see, particularly Sherlock. The anti-Apparation charm’s already been disabled temporarily from this room, so we can leave right away.”

John grasped Sherlock’s hand tightly and waited for Harry and Mycroft to Apparate. Once they had, he met Sherlock’s fierce gaze once before taking a deep breath and following.

The Dementors had been removed from Azkaban after Voldemort’s defeat, but it would take more than that gesture to remove their bleak presence completely. The prison still had a dark gloom looming over it, a constant fog drifting in from the water surrounding the island to give it a ghostly glow. It was located up north, so even in August there was a chill in the air, a remnant of the cold the Dementors left in their wake. Even Sherlock gave a small shiver as they approached the entrance, a motion John felt through their still tightly clasped hands.

Harry led the way to the entrance with Mycroft close behind, John and Sherlock in the rear. As soon as they pushed the doors open, they were met by a man in Auror robes who instantly stiffened at the sight of Harry. Harry waved off the man’s formality and introduced them all. “Edwards, I want you to tell Sherlock and John exactly what you told me when I Flooed over here a few minutes ago.”

“We check on the prisoners by floor hourly, just to make sure everything’s in order,” Edwards quickly explained. “Yaxley and Rosier are on the same floor, level five, and Havens and Faulkner were on duty to see to them last hour. Faulkner found Rosier first, dead for no longer than an hour since they saw him pacing in his cell during the last call. Havens found Yaxley the same way. They both swear not another soul was on the floor during all that time, not without getting past the pair of them.”

“Take us up to them,” Sherlock demanded, and they soon were racing up several flights of stairs to level five. The area was swarmed with Aurors who all gave a start at the entrance of Harry.

“Mr. Potter, sir,” one man, a bit older with a receding hairline and an impressive beard, stuttered as he gave an awkward salute. “We had no idea the Head would be called in for this. We have the problem well in hand, sir, I promise you.”

“You’re not at fault, Williams, at least not as far as we can tell,” Harry quickly reassured. “These gentlemen have been helping us with a case that may be connected and I was hoping they could have a look at the bodies.”

“Of course, I’ll have Havens and Faulkner take you themselves.” Williams waved over a pair of men a touch older than Sherlock and John. The two came over as quick as they could through the crowd of Aurors, but the expressions of perplexity and slight fear on their faces were obvious to all of them. The fear only increased when they saw their Head of Department accompanying the three other visitors.

“Good to see you both, gentlemen,” Harry said with a smile before they could burst into frantic denials of guilt. “Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson here have been helping us with a case that just so happens to involve our two victims. If you’d be so kind as to show us the bodies and tell us what happened?”

Havens and Faulkner glanced at each other briefly before guiding them down the cell lined corridor. John caught glimpses of prisoners’ faces through the small windows as they passed and couldn’t stop the memories that attempted to press in on him when he spotted a familiar face. He kept himself grounded to reality with the warm presence of Sherlock at his right, his excitement rolling off of him in careful currents as they approached the appropriate cells.

“They were both well enough when we checked on them last hour,” Havens explained as Sherlock pushed past the few Aurors outside to inspect the body. John instantly recognized Yaxley even from his position at the doorway. “The only ways in or out are from the opposite staircases, and Faulkner and I were stationed one at each this whole time. It wouldn’t be the first time a prisoner killed himself, but this looks too much like the Killing Curse for it not to be that. The only ones who have access to wands are the Aurors, so they had to have been attacked.”

“You saw absolutely no signs of forced magical entry?” Sherlock shot out without looking up. His eyes were tracing the outline of something on Yaxley’s forehead that John suspected was incredibly familiar. “No sounds of distress or hints at a struggle?”

Both of the Aurors were shaking their heads in the negative, but a gravelly voice from the cell on the left caused them to freeze. “Of course they wouldn’t tell you if they noticed anything, not when it was one of them that did the thing.”

Instantly Havens and Faulkner were surrounded by half a dozen Aurors, all with wands directed right at them. The expressions of fear on the pair of men’s faces turned fully into terror as they both began shouting out over the other in their defense. Sherlock hushed them with a glare and was at the cell’s window before John could blink.

“What did you see?” he asked the prisoner in a low voice, fingers curled around the iron bars. The prisoner shot Sherlock a cocky grin and shrugged, leaning against a wall in the cell so that he was out of view to all but Sherlock.

“I might be inclined to share, given the right…incentive,” the man drawled casually. Sherlock’s lips pursed into a thin line and he darted around to hold out a hand to Harry.

“Very well. Do we have any Veritaserum on hand, Mr. Potter? Perhaps in that slightly hidden pocket stitched just on the inside flap of your robes?”

Harry blinked open mouthed at Sherlock, stunned momentarily into silence, before breaking out in a grin. “I’m not even going to ask how you do that,” he said as he reached into the noted pocket to pull out a small vial. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”

Sherlock was just about to reach out and snatch up the vial when the prisoner gave a dramatic sigh and reappeared at the cell window. “A bloke tries to have a bit of excitement and this is the thanks he gets,” he said before poking a hand out to point at Havens. “About a quarter ‘til rounds, that one came slinking down the corridor and went in Yaxley’s cell. He was in and out in less than five minutes all told. Didn’t make a sound, did he, and I couldn’t hear proper enough to tell what happened, but once they came back to do the official work, it wasn’t particularly hard to figure it out.”

Havens was screeching his innocence when Harry snatched up his wand, pointing it at his wand that was held by one of the other Aurors with an indistinguishable mutter. A long, silvery stream of spells emitted from it, but none that could have etched the words into Yaxley’s forehead or killed him. Harry did the same to Faulkner’s wand with the same result.

“So we have two men, both the only ones with wands and the ability to perform magic in the vicinity, but neither of the wands did the spells that killed them,” John said slowly, raising his head from where he knelt staring at Yaxley’s body to look up at Sherlock. As he did so, he held out an osiria rose in his open palm, offering it up as a bleak offering to him. Sherlock was staring directly at him when their eyes met, a flash of encouragement in their now dark blue. Though John didn’t continue his thought, Sherlock nodded in enthusiasm when he saw the austere understanding in John’s gaze.

“She snuck in, disguised herself as one of the guards on duty, and took care of Yaxley and Rosier,” Sherlock stated. “I would check Havens over for signs of recent attack, something that could have knocked him out for a bit without him remembering. He’s certainly not our killer, at least.”

“Jesus,” John muttered, throwing down the rose as though it burned and letting it lay flattened on the stone floor. His shoulders slumped downward slightly in defeat. “So she did in the others who were behind their deaths. Now where would she go? Does she even have anyplace left?”

Sherlock strode forward, purpose in each heavy footstep, to pull John to his feet. He grasped John’s face in both of his enormous hands, echoing his motions from the Blind Banker case. Instead of spinning him about in a circle like he did then, however, he gently let his forehead come to rest on John’s, encouraging him to breathe deeply along with him. John did as he was silently told, but kept his eyes locked on Sherlock’s.

“Think, John,” Sherlock muttered, his words let out quietly on one of his exhales. “Why would she kill these men, leave the flowers? Why them in particular?”

“Their biggest connection is me,” John replied in an equally low voice. “But that doesn’t explain – “

“Shh.” The sound was more of a feeling across John’s skin than an actual sound. “You are the connection, John. It’s obvious. She is running on the emotions of her heart. Where can we deduce that will take her next?” Sherlock fell silent to give John the chance to reply, but all he received was a tickling sensation when John’s eyebrows furrowed. “You know her best, John. You are the only one of us to know best where she might go. Think, John. I know you can do this.” Sherlock let his nose nudge against John’s in what was unmistakably an intimate fashion. John’s reaction was to instantly jolt away, but from the way he gripped suddenly at Sherlock’s elbows and the excitement in his eyes, Sherlock could tell the motion came from revelation rather than disgust.

“I know where she is.” John’s hold tightened before he let go and rushed down the corridor, towing Sherlock along and completely disregarding the stunned Aurors around them. “I know where she is!”

They dashed down the stairs, heedless of Harry and Mycroft shouting at them from above. Before they could catch up, John and Sherlock were back on the outskirts of Azkaban, not far from where they had originally Apparated. John grasped Sherlock’s elbows once more, a broad grin on his face. “Ready?”

“Always.”

They were gone before the others had even gotten through the front gate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random side note - friends are super useful when you need character names. I borrowed the last names of three friends from college for Jones, Havens, and Faulkner.


	12. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary is found. Confrontations are had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #notdead. Yeah, I'm one of those "doesn't update for months for no reason" kind of people. Buuuuuut I just ordered a commission for part of a scene from this story from one of my favorite Sherlock fanartists (just gonna leave it at that for now, but you'll definitely know when it is done), so I convinced myself that I had to finish editing and posting this before that was done. Ergo, chapter eleven. Only one more to go after this. I'll be honest, once this is done, I'm not sure when I'll have time to get to the sequel. I'm moving to London, England next month to start working on my Masters, so time will not be readily available. I vow to you, however, that this story will be completed before I go. You will, my friend, at least have this. As always, thank you for your kind words and kudos, and let me know what you think.

True night had fallen when they landed down silently, obscuring any relevant details of where they might be. Sherlock held John's elbows as John held his, glancing around him in an attempt to take in the scenery. They were outdoors, about a mile or so away from the outline of what looked like a small town. The hilly landscape sloped down towards the coast, which could just be made out from the occasional blink of a lighthouse beacon. Though it was summer, the breeze that broke across from the water had a chill to it, bringing with it a crisp, salty tang that the Thames always lacked. Sherlock could faintly make out the sounds drifting up from the small town, people closing their shops for the night and saying their farewells. As he watched, streetlights began flickering into life, lining the twisting roads with faint dots of yellow.

John took another deep breath before finally releasing Sherlock's arms. He answered Sherlock's silent query with a sharp shake of his head. There was a worn gravel path, not unlike children would make over many passings across the field, and John led the way down it and into the town. He kept his head low as they walked, for once causing Sherlock to rush to catch up with him rather than the other way around. They skirted the main roads by darting down low lit alleys, eventually making their way closer to the coast. Sherlock noticed immediately that there were enormous cliff sides, hidden from view in the distance, causing an immediate drop down to the sand and surf. The sensation of walking along them reminded him of standing at the edge of the roof of Bart's, and he unconsciously made sure to place John between him and the edge.

"Is this…" Sherlock began in a low voice that petered out. He spotted a small cottage in the distance, set back just before the beginning of a dense forest, that seemed to answer his question before he could fully ask it. John, however, answered anyway.

"My hometown, yeah. Lovely, isn't it? I haven't been back here since the day my parents died, but somehow I still remembered the way, even in the dark." John's voice was hollow, taking on the analytical tone Sherlock recognized from when he reverted into doctor mode to shut off his emotions. Neither spoke as they approached the cottage, but John shot out an arm to bring Sherlock to a halt. "You aren't going in there."

"Of course I'm going in there," Sherlock replied, his tone matter-of-fact, and made to dart around John's arm. John gripped at his shirt and forced him to stop, refusing to release him until Sherlock met his eyes.

"You are bloody well not going in there, William Sherlock Scott Holmes," John growled. Sherlock attempted to keep back the shiver that John's captainesque tone sent through him, but he knew he failed at the almost imperceptible twitch of John's lips. "If I'm right and Mary's in there, that means that we are going up against a murderer with a wand who has already killed you once and probably doesn't give a shit about doing it again, particularly now. Unless you have a wand of your own, you're not going in there."

"What if I did?" Sherlock asked, a slight smirk on his face. When all John did was blink up at him in reply, Sherlock reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a long, sleek wand.

"Where in the ever living fuck…Sherlock! Did you snitch that in Azkaban? I swear to God if that is Harry bloody Potter's wand – "

"Of course it isn't Harry's, John, don't be an idiot," Sherlock scoffed at him. "I doubt Harry would have let me get away with it, he's got an eye on his wand at all times because he, unlike the rest of the lot, actually has a bit of intelligence. It's Faulkner's, he wasn't paying attention to it during all of the activity going on and I could see from the grain of the wood that it was one of the more lenient types. It's helpful the core isn't unicorn hair either, so it should be fairly straightforward to get it to work for me with a bit of force and determination."

"Putting aside the fact that you stole a guard's wand while we were in ruddy **Azkaban prison** , what do you expect to do? You aren't a wizard, Sherlock, you haven't been properly trained, even if there is a possibility you've got a bit of magic in you."

"No better time to test it out than to put it into action, then. I've read enough of your old textbooks by now that I have at least a basic understand of what I'm doing, at least enough to defend myself." When John looked unconvinced, Sherlock let out a sigh. "You aren't going in there alone, John. As long as I am here, I will not allow you to face her without me. So you may either attempt to keep me put with some magic and force me to waste valuable time eventually escaping it or allow me to come. Regardless, you are not going into that house without me by your side as always."

By the end of his short speech, John couldn't help the slight grin at his lips. He shook his head and glared up at Sherlock. "All right, fine, but it's under my conditions. You stay behind me at all times, let me put up at least a basic shield around you, and you do not use the wand unless absolutely necessary. That means as defense only, Sherlock, got it? I'm not going to have you try something too advanced and blowing us all up to hell."

"Agreed, though your concerns are groundless. I've already tried a handful of spells using your wand and mastered them with a bit of work. I highly doubt I am capable of 'blowing us all up to hell.'"

"Currently ignoring the fact that you've used my wand without my permission," John sighed as he rubbed at his rough jaw. "Jesus, I am going to be in a shitton of trouble with the Ministry for all of this…hold still." He gave his wand a wave over Sherlock's front and muttered, "Protego." A light blue mist soon surrounded Sherlock, giving him an eerie, almost ghostly glow. John did a quick test to ensure it would do its job before turning back to face the cottage.

It was small but comfortable looking, exactly what Sherlock expected from John's childhood home. Obviously no one had resided there in years; the windows were dusty enough to no longer be transparent, the front steps were cracked and jagged, and the forest surrounding had crept into the yard to overrun the formerly well kept garden. Sherlock instantly spotted the roses that John spoke of often, their silvery gray and burgundy petals contrasting with the excess of green in the shadow of the moon.

John allowed the slightly lit tip of his wand to guide them forward, their legs rustling through the too high grass. When he stiffened at the foot of the broken steps, Sherlock snaked out an arm to rest a warm hand at the small of his back. John melted slightly into the motion, causing Sherlock to feel the muscles beneath his hand loosen their tension. John gave him a slight nod of thanks and they clamoured over the stairs to shove the partially falling door open.

The cottage had been emptied of furniture and the homey touches of active life, leaving the rooms bleak and unwelcome. A fine coat of dust covered the walls and floors, except where a set of feminine footsteps led them through the ground level. They followed silently behind the steps, neither voicing their familiarity with their size and shape. After a complete circuit of the house brought no sign of life, John crossed his arms over his chest and gave a huff as he glared around the entranceway.

"We're on the right track – she was here, and recently," Sherlock muttered, kneeling down to run a finger through the dust and sniffing it. "There hasn't been time for new dust to settle and there's a fairly misty quality around where she stepped. There was dew on the grass outside, from the tides shifting in, so she's only been gone since this afternoon at the latest. She could still be close by."

"Sherlock." John had shuffled over to a window as Sherlock spoke. He used the sleeve of his jacket to rub a small patch in the grime and peer out into the night. When he spoke, Sherlock shot up and crossed to his side, not even taking the moment to clear the dust from his knee. Their view led out towards the water, the cliff side almost invisible as it melted into the horizon. Just along the edge, hardly distinguishable from the dark shapes of the night around it, was an odd silhouette that appeared to be sitting and staring down into the water.

As one, John and Sherlock rushed back outdoors and up to the cliff, both of them halting a few feet away from the figure. When they drew closer, the outline of slim shoulders and short blonde hair became more prominent. Even though their progress out to her was nearly silent, she turned her head slightly when they froze to shoot them a sad smile.

"You're later than I expected," Mary said comfortably, turning back to watch the waves crash in. "I thought the roses might give you a hint. Perhaps it was a bit too obscure."

John readjusted steady grip on his wand, shooting out his free arm to make sure Sherlock remained behind him. "We only learned about Jones and Travers a few hours ago. They had only just found Yaxley and Rosier a bit before we got to Azkaban."

"Ah, you went right to the scene. I should have expected it." She was nodding as though they were carrying on a conversation about the weather, her voice calm and casual. Sherlock could see John's fingers around his wand turning white from how hard he held it, and the arm in front of his chest shook faintly in what he expected was barely contained anger. "Tell me what you think you know."

"Oh no," John seethed, taking a single step forward. "No more guessing games. I've been tossed about by you more times than I know and for once I'd like some fucking answers! I swear to God, Mary, if I have to force Veritaserum down your throat to get the truth, I will do it!"

Sherlock gave him his chance to shout, staying back to simply observe for once. While John quietly huffed out breaths like the silently raging bull he was, Mary continued to sit along the edge and stare out into nothing.

"I was sixteen," she began, voice barely carrying over the sound of the surf below. "They normally would have waited to have me join at seventeen, but my older brother was taking the Mark as well and they wanted us to do it at the same time. Something about symbolism and tradition. The point is that I got it."

"Why?" John asked, voice equally low and hardly containing his anger. "Why the hell would you take it? There's no way you've been living as a Muggle for this long while believing the utter shit they did."

She chuckled a bit at that and continued. "I didn't know what I believed, honestly. I was raised to think that family was of the highest importance and that I existed to bring our name honour. I took the Mark because it was expected of me, not for any particular enthusiasm for the cause."

"They knew they could use your particular skill set," Sherlock added. He wasn't even sure if she knew he was there, but her vacant persona didn't falter at his statement.

"Oh, I was certainly invaluable. Nobody need know I had the Mark if I could change my skin, so I could get into anything, get away with whatever I wished. I was practically a god. The Dark Lord would have destroyed a thousand Muggle towns just to get a single metamorphmagus Death Eater."

"Do not call him that," John snapped harshly, causing her to jump in the first genuine reaction they had seen from her yet. "Don't you dare make him sound like he was some all powerful master, like he was deserving of some great respect. Lord Voldemort was as evil a creature to have been born and he wasn't worthy to breathe, let alone live for as long as he did."

"Evil he might have been, John, but you have to admit his power was impressive," Mary pressed on. Sherlock suspected he may soon have to physically hold John back from attacking her. "He was evil, true, but his power was great. I may not know how I felt on his beliefs, but that much at least is hard to deny."

"You don't fully stand behind what he did, then," Sherlock prodded when he sense John was too incensed to reply. "You knew he was evil, yet followed his orders regardless."

"I still don't know what I believe. I remember times when he'd speak to us of what he thought of Muggles, of the place these lesser creatures deserved in regard to our far more impressive powers. I've lived among Muggles long enough to know they are not to be underestimated, but such ingrained beliefs are hard to break. The lessons of my childhood are ones I can never fully forget."

"You disgust me," John spat out, taking a step backward nearly into Sherlock in his physical repulsion. "How can you, how can **anyone** , possibly marry someone you thought to be a Muggle and think he's unworthy of basic human rights? How could you marry a man knowing that you killed his parents simply because they were born lacking the gift their son possessed?"

She rose to her feet so fast that it seemed as though she were more spirit than being. The motion caused both John and Sherlock to raise their wands at her, but her own hands were empty. "I had no idea what I was doing the night I killed your parents, John. I certainly had no idea they were yours. I was following the orders of my commander, not unlike you."

John growled low in his throat. "Tell me what happened that night. Tell me how you killed them."

Her face turned instantly impassive once more. "They were another Muggle family as far as we were told, ones that were known to be particularly close to a local wizarding family in the town. I assumed we were to kill them to teach the wizards how weak these friends of theirs were, how pointless their endeavours to become close to them would be. It was a quick job – get in, do the kill, leave the Mark over their house. No different than all the other Muggle attacks we'd done. It was Yaxley's idea to carve Mudblood into their foreheads. Apparently he knew the couple had a son who had gone to Hogwarts and he thought it would be an appropriate added touch."

"You knew they had children, then?" John's voice was wavering with each word he spoke, but he attempted to keep it firm. "You all knew there were children, God only knew how young, and you killed them anyway."

"I didn't know they had a wizard child!" she cried, beginning to pace in agitation along the grass. "I had no idea one of their children had magic too!"

"It shouldn't have mattered!" John screamed, going to leap at her but held back by Sherlock's firm grip on his arms. "These were lives, human lives, who were part of a family! It shouldn't have fucking **mattered** what kind of child they had, or even if they had them at all! They were human beings, Mary, not pigs out for the slaughter!"

Mary's shoulders lowered as she finally stopped pacing. She turned back toward the water, gaze facing down at the sand below. "You're right, of course you're right. What they were, or rather what they weren't, shouldn't matter. Doesn't matter. But it was done and there isn't anything more I can tell you besides I'm sorry. Destroying the last of those who did you harm was the best I could do."

No one spoke for several minutes until John drew in a deep, long breath to calm himself. "And what of Cecelia?" he finally asked in a quiet voice. "As far as you know, she's a Muggle. What would you have done if I never found out and she turned out to have no magic? Or did you have plans to drown her down at the river like some dog you didn't want anymore?"

"How could you think that, John?" Mary's eyes flashed with tears when her head shot back to face them. "I am not a monster! Cecelia is my child! I will love her, regardless of what she is, until the end of time! Nothing could ever be done to change that!"

John nodded once gruffly. "May I see it? The Mark?"

Without replying verbally, Mary pulled up her sleeve to reveal her right forearm. Against the pale skin was the skull and snake, standing out in stark relief in the moonlight. Although Sherlock itched to inspect it closer, he remained solidly at John's side. Even from the distance, he could see the lines along the edges of the Mark morph along her skin as though it was always there, more natural than any Muggle tattoo and significantly more permanent. Yet even as they watched, the skin along her arm wavered and rippled. Quicker than it likely took for the Mark to first be placed, the skin on her arm cleared back to its normal solid peach as though it never existed. Though they knew she was a metamorphmagus, having such solid proof of seeing it happen before their eyes was still a shock.

"I want to see you," John suddenly said, eyes darting up from her arm to her face. "The real you, not this picture you've painted of the Mary I thought I knew."

Mary held her hands open to them, palms facing upward. "You've had her the entire time. I didn't want to be a witch any longer, so I took on my born shape and joined the Muggle world. I wanted to start my new life with a truth, one I could actually claim as my own. You've always had the real me."

"You were never mine," John stated flatly with a shake of his head. "I lost faith in that the very moment I heard you shot Sherlock Holmes. I never wanted to see you, hear your name again, when I held that flash drive in my hand. The only reason I stayed was the baby that you held and the belief that I could figure out some way to get out and back where I belonged with her as fast as possible."

"You did read the drive, then." He hadn't actually said it, but she could sense it from his tone.

"Yeah, and a fat lot of good that did me. Even your supposed truths were a lie. Even if I thought I could trust you again, this is the final straw. I couldn't trust you if I needed to in order to live."

"I never had you anyway, John Watson," Mary said with a sad shake of her head. "I was never yours and you were never mine, despite how hard we tried. You found your second half long before I ever came around." When she pointedly stared at Sherlock, John reached out his free hand to grasp on to Sherlock's hand. The motion caused Sherlock to jolt, eyes shooting between John's fierce face and their clasped hands. When he gave it a tentative squeeze, John replied with one back with double the force. Though they could see the tears in her eyes, Mary smiled slightly at the motion.

"I could never say sorry enough, John, never do or say enough to deserve forgiveness. I've killed without regret, killed those who had absolutely no way to defend themselves and only did it because they weren't born the same way I was. I wish I had some sort of excuse, but nothing ever comes to mind." She took a deep breath and clenched her eyes shut before turning them on Sherlock. "You watch over him, Sherlock Holmes. You hold in your possession one of the greatest, strongest hearts I've ever met. I'd say you don't deserve it, but honestly? You may be the only one who does." Without their noticing immediately, she began to gradually step backward, getting closer to the edge. "Give Cecy my love. Help her to understand that regardless of what happened, I loved her with all of my being."

Sherlock realized what was happening a second too late. He lunged forward to grab any part of her he could, his eyes wide in shock. The last sight he had of her before she fell backward over the edge was her sad smile.

" **NO!** " he shouted as she gracefully fell, her blonde hair whirling in her face from the movement. The sound of her hitting the beach below echoed up to them, and even from the distance Sherlock could tell from the mangled shape of her body that she was gone.


	13. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Mary gone, John is left to pick himself and, with Sherlock's help, continue on. Thankfully everyone appears to be on the same page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw man. Guys...this is it. The final chapter. This monster I have been dealing with since November 1st is done. It definitely isn't perfect, there are certainly plot holes and inconsistencies that need to be fixed, and there are questions to be answered in the next story. But overall I find myself content and hopefully you will too. It has been a delightful journey with all of you and I look forward to seeing what you think.
> 
> (P.S. One of my favorite, favorite, FAVORITE Sherlock fanartists, Kelly or anotherwellkeptsecret on Tumblr, opened up commissions recently. In order to get myself motivated to finish this, I asked for her to do a scene from this story, the bit in chapter seven where Sherlock first tries John's wand. It came out absolutely magnificent. Please please please check it out and rave over how fantastic Kelley's skills are here: http://anotherwellkeptsecret.tumblr.com/post/124038351044/greyscale-lineart-commission-for# )
> 
> (P.P.S. I seriously got that to link when I posted it in chapter seven earlier today but my lack of AO3 skills are showing and I cannot get it to function properly. So to use the actual link, check it out in the notes at the beginning of chapter seven or just copy and paste because I rage quit. XD )

John wasn’t certain how he ended up in the comfortable chair locked away in Harry’s office. The last solid memory he had was watching Sherlock dive for Mary as she fell. He imagined he ought to be feeling some sort of grief, at the very least flashbacks of when Sherlock fell, but oddly all John felt was hollowness. It was as though his mind, when forced to confront watching the wife he didn’t even really know fall to her death, decided that the only possible remedy for the situation was to shut down.

Somehow he was always aware of Sherlock, however. Whether he was simply sitting silently in the seat beside him or attempting to get him to swallow down countless cups of tea, John could always sense when Sherlock was in the room. The sensation tinged beneath his skin as though he had a homing device directly connected to the man, alerting him of his every move to reassure him that this time it was Sherlock attempting to comfort him, Sherlock urging him to open up and talk, to eat and sleep and care for himself in one of the many ways John always attempted to care for him. Though currently unable to express it, the mere fact that he was not mourning Sherlock this time around, let alone that the man was watching over him with anxious devotion, was enough to comfort him completely.

He had no idea when he fell asleep, but when he blinked his eyes open the Muggle alarm clock on Harry’s desk was flashing half eight in the morning. John stretched his neck to each side, attempting to work out the kinks caused by sleeping in an armchair all evening, and gave his shoulder a few careful rolls. Despite his time out in the misty night and sleeping in the chair, it was surprisingly limber. He felt around the back of the chair and pulled out a small, plainly patterned fabric bag. It was a rich blue in colour and shifted easily in John’s fingers, small objects shifting around inside it that reminded him of rice. He hefted the bag in his hand and felt the warmth of it settle pleasantly over his palm.

“Harry helped me find it,” Sherlock said suddenly from a chair nearby, causing John to jump. “It’s an aromatherapy rice pack. Normally one would warm it in a microwave, but Harry talked me through a fairly basic heating charm. I’ve had to reset it a few times since you fell asleep, but it seems to be holding the heat fairly well now.”

Sherlock stood to step forward and place a cup of tea before John. He nodded his thanks before downing nearly all of it in one go, practically scalding his mouth in the process. Sherlock lowered himself back into the chair opposite, sipping from his own cup much more sedately.

“How are you doing?” John asked, settling back into the cushion and reapplying the rice pack at its easy position between his shoulder blades. He hummed his satisfaction as the heat began to seep back into his bones.

“I’m perfectly fine, John. It isn’t as though that was the first I witnessed someone dying.” Sherlock’s eyes fixed on John’s face, studying it intently. “The more important question is how are you?”

“I’m…okay. Honestly.” He could see the doubt in Sherlock’s eyes and couldn’t help but smile. “Really, Sherlock, it’s fine. We’ve already established that I was fairly pissed at Mary, rightly so, and that things were basically over between us anyway. I’m a bit upset that she decided to kill herself and more than a bit bothered that she chose to do it that way, but…I don’t know. Is it possible to have already expected what you figured was inevitable?”

Sherlock nodded. “It’s understandable. Regardless, her life as we all knew it was over, whether it was through death or a life sentence in Azkaban. It was unfortunate that those were our only options.”

John gave a long sigh, letting his head fall back against the cushions. “God. I should have expected all this. I should have done something about it when she gave us the flash drive. This was a disaster from the start.”

“Don’t, John.” When John looked up, Sherlock’s eyes were fixed intensely on him. “This is not your fault. You cannot blame yourself for the fact that you seem drawn to the dangerous sort.”

Chuckling, John replied, “Yes, well. Can’t help but blame myself for it, even if it’s not my fault. I just wish Cecelia didn’t have to pay for my ridiculous mistakes, however indirectly.”

Sherlock abruptly jumped to his feet, offering John a hand. “Come. Let’s go collect your daughter.”

John took the offered hand with a small grin. “Let’s.”

~~~

Their walk back in from Hogsmeade was a silent one. They fell into step easily, close enough to the other that their shoulders and elbows brushed with each step. John knew that eventually they would have to discuss the tension between them. Even Mary had insinuated that they felt something for each other that was more than platonic, and from the signs Sherlock was giving him John felt a bit more confident of what the other wished from him. It was simply a matter of one of them taking the final plunge and acting on what was obvious.

John was on the verge of speaking when Sherlock suddenly veered off the path, his motions intense. John followed close behind, forehead wrinkling in confusion, but he didn’t break their silence. They marched along the grass, one behind the other as always, and eventually the trees started to clump closer together. Uncertainty grew at a marginal pace, familiarity settling in when recognition hit John the farther they travelled. He never purposefully went into the Forbidden Forest, but he could tell from the angle of their trek that they would soon be entering it, if they weren’t there already. He rushed up to match Sherlock’s longer stride and put out a hand to grasp his shoulder.

“Sherlock? Where are you headed? Even if it’s daylight, we really shouldn’t be in the forest, particularly when I’m the only one with real magical experience.”

“There’s something,” he mumbled, his face knitting in a frown. “I saw it from a distance as it landed. It was peculiar shaped…it isn’t far now, I was able to judge the distance from the trajectory.” He froze, causing John to collide slightly with him. He raised a hand to gesture into the clearing they had been approaching. “There. What is that?”

John’s eyes widened. Three creatures stood in the clearing, their outlines somewhat skeletal in shape. He watched as one ruffled its scaly wings, giving a shake of his head not unlike a horse. He let his hand slowly fall down from Sherlock’s shoulder, dragging his fingers lightly down his sleeve. He noticed the shiver it caused to roll down Sherlock’s spine and shot him a mischievous grin as he passed. When Sherlock didn’t follow, John snatched up his hand and pulled him along.

“Come on, then, they’re safe. They’re thestrals.”

“They’re majestic,” Sherlock breathed. His fingers twitched out as he reached towards them, offering his palm for inspection. One of them gave a snort and a toss of his head before tentatively stepping towards his hand, hot air blowing from the flared nostrils. He gave Sherlock’s fingers a nudge and, reassured that all was well, proceeded to snuggle into it. An expression of amazed wonder spread across Sherlock’s face and John couldn’t look away, a wide grin etching across his own face. He stepped into the thestral’s chest, his curls brushing against its ears enough to make them twitch. They nuzzled into each other, the thestral basking in the unfamiliar warmth of the gesture. Before long, the other two came to circle Sherlock until he nearly spun in his attempts to give attention to each at the same time. John’s bark of laughter caused his head to bolt up, the thestrals copying the motion. He came up to Sherlock’s side, running a hand along the ears of one thestral while Sherlock saw after the other two.

“You didn’t hear about them in any of those tomes you read?” John asked. At Sherlock’s shake of his head, he went on to explain. “They draw the carriages the students ride in to get to and from Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. Most people are pretty afraid of them – they can only be seen by those who have witnessed death firsthand.”

Sherlock froze and stared at John, fixed into place. He jolted out of his thoughts when one of them nudged its head with Sherlock’s, causing the man to shake himself slightly and return to stroking its back. “Is that why they look like this?”

John shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know much about them beyond that, actually. I’m not all that surprised you’re so fascinated with them, honestly. They’re just your sort of creature.”

Humming his agreement, Sherlock continued to stroke his pair silently, his hands running reverently over their skeletal forms. They stood together comfortably and simply enjoyed the comfort of their mutual comradery. John kept stealing sly looks at Sherlock, watching his amazement at the thestrals and savouring the ease. A warm feeling of ready contentment settled into his chest, urging him forward and closer to the other. Normally he forced the by now too familiar sensation down, but this instance felt happily different.

“Fuck it,” he muttered with a firm nod and surged forward, clashing their lips together in a motion that shuddered with satisfaction. He carefully watched for Sherlock’s reaction, but after his initial jolt of surprise he melted into the sensation, his hands fluttering between grasping at John’s shoulders and entangling his fingers with his hair. John thought for a moment he would have to catch him as his knees wobbled and he pushed closer, attempting to get further into Sherlock’s space while lifting his hands to cradle his skull in sure fingers. One of the thestrals gave an abrupt snort that shocked them apart, although their faces remained close enough for their noses to brush. John couldn’t help but grin up at Sherlock’s blank face, adjusting himself enough in Sherlock’s fierce grip to maneuver about and push a curl from his forehead. Eventually Sherlock blinked back into awareness, the tiniest of smiles coming to his lips at the sight of John’s own. “Okay?”

“ **Perfect** ,” Sherlock sighed and fell back on him so they were connected once more. Neither paid much attention to how long they stood in the clearing snogging, thestrals butting occasionally at their elbows in a bid for attention, but eventually John forced them apart. Sherlock’s eyebrows knit in confusion, but he was reassured by the warm expression on John’s face. With a nudge of his head back in the direction of the castle and a confident grasp of his hand, John led them back up to the school.

Neville met them in the entrance hall, Cecelia happily bouncing in his arms and all of their things packed neatly in their bags at his feet. At the sight of John and Sherlock, she squealed in delight, her tiny fists grasping out for them while she leaned forward in Neville’s grasp. With a bright laugh, John snatched her up in a hug and allowed her to curl into his chest. When she saw Sherlock standing back slightly from them, she reached out a hand to encourage him forward, her opposite thumb firmly fixed into her mouth. The small smile the gesture put on Sherlock’s face caused John to pull him forward himself to bring their lips together again. They were encouraged to part at the sound of McGonagall clearing her throat.

“Am I to assume that your little adventure went according to plan?” she asked, a faint smirk on her face as she observed their matching pair of blushing faces. “Or as well as could be expected, at least.”

“Mary is dead,” John replied flatly. The sadness that had taken his voice over whenever discussing her the last few weeks was finally gone. “She explained herself first, for which I am grateful, but yeah, she’s gone. Practically gave us her blessing before offing herself, actually.”

McGonagall’s face turned sympathetic as she nodded. “I thought as much. If nothing else, I hope this has given you the closure you desired.” At John’s smile of appreciation, she turned to Sherlock. “Professor Dumbledore’s portrait and I have been investigating what you discovered about the quill. Apparently the Holmes family occasionally comes up on our list of possible future students, though the inclusion is intermittent and the exact reason why remains a mystery. There seemed to be a bit of question in regard to you specifically, Mr. Holmes. Obviously you hold a certain amount of magical ability, but the quill wasn’t entirely certain whether it was enough for you to succeed at Hogwarts. Given what I know of you personally, I believe that, if you so wish, you’ll almost certainly be able to gain a wand of your own and learn the magical arts, though I’m afraid it would most likely be far more difficult to learn than it would be normally.”

For a moment, Sherlock merely gaped at her. Eventually, he turned enormously large eyes on John, the hope in them nearly crushing John’s heart. He reached out so that he could entwine their fingers with his free hand. “It’s up to you, love. I can try to teach you if you want to learn.”

Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered at the term of endearment, but he was nodding vigorously before John could even finish speaking. “I must. I have to at least try, if there’s the chance…I need this, John. But you don’t have to – “

“It would be my pleasure,” John interrupted. “We can pop by Ollivander’s after we empty out my flat and get all of my things settled back into 221b.”

“You’re moving back?” Sherlock’s voice was quietly incredulous and the sound caused John to chuckle. He shifted his hand from his to Sherlock’s collar to pull him in for a quick peck on the lips.

“You adorable sod, of course we’re moving back.” His expression turned briefly uncertain. “As long as you’ll have us, of course.”

“You will always have a place at Baker Street, John Watson.” He laid one hand on John’s waist and the other on Cecelia’s head, eyes darting between the two faces that looked up at him. “Both of you.”

John’s face turned bright with a promising grin. “Well then. I suppose we’re off then. Thanks Neville, Professor, really. You’ve been fantastic through all of this.”

McGonagall pulled John into a hug before doing the same to a startled Sherlock. Before releasing him, she pulled his ear down to whisper into it with a stern yet warm tone. “You take care of our John, Mr. Holmes. And don’t let him slip away from us this time.”

He met John’s eyes over her shoulder. “Never, Professor. This will certainly not be our last endeavour in the wizarding world, not when there’s so much to learn.” She gave his cheek an affectionate pat and showed them off. John snatched up Sherlock’s hand almost immediately after he bent to grab their bags, squeezing it hard in affection. Their grins remained solidly fixed on each other’s faces as they made their way back into Hogsmeade, Cecelia babbling at them as they walked. As soon as they were past the barrier, John wrapped a tight arm around Sherlock’s waist and they Apparated home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darling friends, you are always welcome to pop over to my Tumblr, futureofthemasses, to talk and fangirl. I would love to discuss anything with you, plus you can appreciate my ranting in the tags. Thank you so much for your enthusiasm with this fic!

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me on the [Tumblr](http://futureofthemasses.tumblr.com)!


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